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THE 

LITTLE SOUL 


By 

ELINOR MORDAUNT 

Author of 


“GARDEN OF CONTENTTvlENTT* 
“BILLANY” ETC. 


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i 

•( 


THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY 


PUBLISHERS 


NEW YORK 


'P^3 

-Is 


Copyright, 1921 by / 
THE JAMES A. McCANN COMPANY 


All Rights Reserved 



OCl -3 1921 


PRINTED IN THE U. S. A 


§)C1.A624794 


J (CJc 

■ >H/ !<■, I /HI. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


PART I 

CHAPTER I 

A two-days' sale of household furniture and effects had 
that day been held at one of those neat, not to say smug, 
houses in Montpellier Square. With a bored and disillusioned 
air the auctioneer had rattled off the last few indiscriminate 
lots: carts and vans were waiting outside: men in heavy 
boots and hessian aprons tramping to and fro. A greater 
part of the furniture had been removed and the remainder 
was rapidly disappearing. Already the house had lost all 
signs of individuality ; the few articles still left lying about 
at ugly angles wore a lost, detached air which discounted 
their value; mere fragments of merchandise, not so fresh 
as they had once been, no longer the impedimenta, the in- 
timate accompaniment, of any individual life. 

Tfce steps were dirty, littered with scraps of straw, paper, 
canvas, which lay unstirred by the still air ; for it was freez- 
ing hard, the sky above the peaceful tracery of bare trees in 
the quiet square a uniform smoky pink. 

Hoyland buttoned his dark-blue overcoat across his chest 
with a fastidious movement which settled the shoulders and 
waist into their right line; glanced round for his hat, and 
picking it up from the bare mantelshelf dusted it with his 
silk handkerchief. 

A trifle above middle height, he held himself well, was 
strikingly well made, though his fi^re threatened to become 
too heavy with the approach of middle-age. He was a fair 
man, with that sort of colorlessness common to town dwellers 
who are yet in perfect health. His eyes under their heavy 
lids were a 3ull, rather tawny gray, cold and remarkably, 
almost insolently, indifferent: his whole face — despite the 
rather narrow forehead — was, with its heavy nose, square 
chin and voluptuous mouth, reminiscent of the bust of cer- 


2 THE LITTLE SOUL 

tain Roman emperors : Tiberius, perhaps ; or even more that 
Tiberius which remains in the mind’s eye after reading the 
description which Tacitus gives of him. 

“Where on earth does all the dust come from? Do the 
special sort of people who frequent sales exude it, or what? 
I could swear that it’s not out of my poor mother’s furni- 
ture.” 

“Your poor mother!” Leila Gavin glanced round and 
laughed lightly. “Your poor mother ! Really, my dear, as 
though she were dead 1” 

“Ah, well — 'poor’ — it’s such a decent, widowed and re- 
signed expression; a sort of hint of affection with which 
one gives away nothing whatever of oneself.” 

“Catch you giving away any of that precious commodity !” 

“You, my dear child, you, to say that!” 

“Oh, well, well, perhaps the parings ! Scarcely even that. 
One does not give one’s clothes to the wardrobe when it just 
happens to be convenient to hang them there.” 

“A grievance — ?” 

“Heavens, no ! What should I want with the entire para- 
phernalia of any man?” Again she laughed, so lightly it 
was little wonder one of her admirers had likened the sound 
to the upward flight of a lark. The charming face dimpled 
with a smile; and yet at the back of her brilliant, green- 
gray eyes there was a hint of anxiety, strain, as though her 
airy unconcern was an effort; as though she were deliber- 
ately trying to match her companion by keeping on the top 
of things. 

Still, for the most part, she was light enough in all con- 
science. Her quick movements, which never deteriorated 
into jerkiness ; the gestures of her slim white hands, her long 
slender neck, her short delicate face, like a flower, with its 
upturned nose and faint powdering of freckles — a mockery 
of gaslight freckles, for she hated the country, outdoor life — 
above all her character, were alike set to a tender, lilting tune 
of exquisite lightness. 

And yet all that portentous array of words used to express 
women who live as she lived would have been ridiculous to 
apply to Leila Gavin: as ridiculous as though she were a 
butterfly sipping, flying away, sipping again ; so fragile and 
artificial, and yet in some ways so indomitably natural ! 

She held a faint rose-pink brocade curtain, shot with gray 
and silver, of which the fellow hung over the back of a 


THE LITTLE SOUL 3 

broken kitchen chair, in her hands; was shaking it out, 
smoothing it as she spoke. 

“I must find a bit of paper for these ; they will make the 
duckiest lining for an opera cloak; cushions, too, nice fat 
cushions, lots of them — and oh, C. H., how I do love and 
adore lots of anything ! Double-width, and five yards long 
at the very least. What a mercy that I saw them in 
time ! . . . Hey, you there 

She beckoned to a van-boy who was staring in at the open 
door, sent him off in search of paper and string, and went 
on smoothing ; humming to herself — apparently unconscious, 
and yet always conscious, of the tall, fair man who stood 
looking at her, with that air of discounting the humanity, 
while fully appreciative of the work of art as represented by 
the pretty creature in front of him. 

“Make haste, Leila ; it’s getting too cold to be pleasant.” 

“All right. I’ll be ready in a moment.” She fluttered to 
the door, and, calling over the banisters, bade the boy, 
“Hurry up!” When he reappeared, she showed him how 
to hold one end of the shimmering breadths of brocade, 
while she folded them ; speaking rather quickly all the while, 
in her soft, light tones, as though half afraid of Hoyland 
and his possible boredom. 

“They did themselves well, these people of yours. Isn’t 
that just like the old ones! Spending every penny upon 
themselves, never thinking of any one else, selfish pigs !” 

“Pooh ! we’re all selfish — ^the religious ones who bank for 
the next world, and we others who bank for this. You and 
I now — I like you because you’re prettier, more refined, less 
exacting than any woman I’ve ever met — of your type.” 
His merciless eyes caught her flush and he added courte- 
ously, though quite callously — ^“Sorry, my dear; I didn’t 
mean to hurt you ; but there we are. I like you because you 
please me, and you like me for the same reason. Also be- 
cause, though I demand less than most men, I demand the 
very best, which it pleases you— fastidious little person as 
you are — to give.” 

By this time the curtains were folded in their brown paper, 
and, raising one foot upon a box so as to form a table of her 
knee, Leila tied them up ; deftly, as she did everything, with 
a sharp little tweak of the string, almost like a wince, at the 
last knot. 

“You and I,’* went on Hoyland, gently, as he took out his 


4 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


case and lighted a cigarette, his appraising eye upon her 
pretty slender foot and ankle in its silk stocking and neat 
patent shoe, “make a very fine art of — he hesitated before 
the last word, as though conscious of the rare pleasure which 
it gave her — “of love, Leila/’ 

“Practice, C. H., practice!” She laughed; then at the 
sound of a motor, straightened herself, with the preening 
movement of a bird. “A taxi ! See if you can catch it for 
us. I can’t carry this thing through the streets; besides, 
Clare’s coming to tea, and I’m late as it is.” 

Moving towards one of the windows, Hoyland threw it 
open, and leant out to whistle; then drew back as he saw 
three ladies step from the taxi which had drawn up at the 
door, and shutting the window, bolted it with deliberate 
care, while Leila glanced up in surprise — “You silly goat, 
you’ve missed it ! Ah, well, I daresay we’ll find one opposite 
Harrod’s.” 

“I daresay.” Hoyland moved over to the mantelpiece and 
knocked the ash from his cigarette into the empty grate; 
took off his hat again and glancing at it removed an im- 
perceptible speck of dust; his face was very slightly paler, 
more set, and yet there was an air of quiet amusement. 

For a moment Leila stood with her head a little on one 
side, listening. Then she took a step forward ; involuntarily 
her hand went to her hat, her hair — “Why — what in the 
world — ? They’re coming up. Who can it be? A day 
after the fair, eh ?” 

Hoyland smiled. He could have told her in a word, for he 
had seen; but it pleased him better to see how she would 
behave under the shock of surprise. There was the rustle 
of silk, the sound of feet mounting the stairs, and three 
ladies — ^the youngest a mere child of thirteen or fourteen, 
with her hair loose round her shoulders — entered the room. 

The first — b . tall, rather Junoesque woman, strikingly at- 
tractive, but no longer in her first youth — hesitated at the 
sight of Hoyland and stood still ; breathing a little quickly, 
blocking the other two back in the doorway behind her. 

She was beautifully dressed in black, with black fox furs, 
revealing, where they fell open in front, a high swathing 
neckband of soft creamy lace, a glitter of diamonds, repeated 
in a large solitaire in either ear. She wore a tall black toque 
with an osprey, rather like a Russian cap, a type of head- 
dress which suited her as admirably as do most styles native 


THE LITTLE SOUL 5 

to a woman's own country, for she was a Russian by birth : 
cosmopolitan by education and habit. She had fine dark 
eyes, and smooth dark hair beautifully dressed; the upper 
part of her face was delicate and well-cut, but the lower half 
was coarsening with age, the mouth showing cruelty and 
acquisitiveness, the chin self-indulgence, arrogance. 

Excepting for the fact that she was dark While he was 
fair, and that her face betrayed a weaker, more petulant self- 
indulgence, she was so like the man who stood leaning with 
one arm upon the mantelshelf confronting her that it was 
impossible not to recognize the two as mother and son. 

Hoyland, who was still smiling though he said nothing, 
had rather ostentatiously turned and dusted the corner of 
the mantelshelf upon which he now rested one elbow. Noth- 
ing disconcerted his mother like silence, and he knew it. 

It seemed as though she realized his thought, for a quick 
'flush rose to her face. She had opened her lips to speak, 
but closed them with a snap and raising her lorgnette, 
treated Leila Gavin to an insolent stare, which Leila re- 
turned with an amused smile ; for Hoyland himself was the 
only person who was, in these days, capable of putting her 
out of countenance. 

Still no one spoke. Mrs. Hoyland moved a step or two 
more forward into the room, and the younger girl, pushing 
in front of her sister — who hung back, in what was clearly 
enough an agony of shyness — stepped quickly to the center 
of the wall behind her mother and stood there; glancing 
from Leila to her brother with an air of alert excitement, 
her bright dark eyes dancing. 

She had been dragged about the Continent, from one hotel 
to another, ever since she began to walk; at one moment 
snubbed away out of sight; at another, shown off, put 
through her tricks like a pet performing dog. Her brilliant 
good looks, her carmine cheeks — she was all rose, white and 
black, all sparkle and life — the daring pose of her little fig- 
ure, the way in which she paid for her mother’s dressing of 
her, had attracted attention wherever she went. She was, 
by this time, quite used to being stared at, whispered about, 
and it served Mrs. Hoyland’s purpose ; after all, people soon 
grew tired of a child, so there could be no question of ri- 
valry, while she served as an opening for acquaintances 
which might otherwise have been difficult to come by. 

^ Apart from this, the fact that she was almost always 


6 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


accompanied by her two daughters gave the elder woman a 
firmer basis in life. If Maisie proved one too many, she 
could be packed off for a while with a governess. As to 
Rose, she was never in the way, and when that is said the 
implication that she was never very interesting, that she 
lacked individuality, is complete. 

The fact was that Mrs. Hoyland could not have done 
without her elder daughter — advance-agent, lady’s maid, sec- 
retary, all in one. Maisie might be, and often was, sent out 
of the way when she, or affairs in general, became tiresome. 
But it was then that Rose was most needed as shying-post, 
or buffer; while no one — unless it might be the old ladies 
with their eternal crochet, who appear to have been dumped 
down in the vestibules of continental hotels for no apparent 
reason — gave the daughter a second thought, once they had 
spoken to the mother, looked into her sparkling, insistent 
eyes, found themselves caught up, and rolled along, delight- 
fully enough, upon a stream of extremely intelligent and 
sufficiently sympathetic conversation. For Mrs. Hoyland’s 
crowning cleverness lay in her faculty for making other peo- 
ple feel clever, interesting; and this, even more than her 
looks, accounted for the fact that, though close upon fifty, 
only twenty years older than her son, she was never without 
a train of admirers. 

After all, it was Leila who broke the portentous calm. 
She had no idea who the strangers might be, though she 
realized that the elder woman had placed her in a moment. 
“Fm afraid that you’re rather late; the sale’s over. It is — 
she gave one of those airy gestures with her hands, ‘‘alto- 
gether after the ball.” 

It was that which set Mrs. Hoyland swinging round to her 
son; forced her to speech, if only for the sake of putting 
this masterpiece of impertinence in its place. 

“What does this mean? Flow dare you — ^how dare you! 
I am just back from Biarritz — ” She broke off as though, 
for the moment, her aplomb were swallowed up in a wave 
of incredulous wrath. 

“You were not expected until Friday. This is what 
comes of changing your mind. If you had kept to your own 
original arrangements there would have been no fuss — scene, 
which you know,” he smiled, rather ingratiatingly, “we both 
equally detest. You have always been like a man in that, 
my dear Mother.” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


7 


“It seems to me that the ‘scene* is the least part of it/* 
remarked Mrs. Hoyland bitterly. She had raised her veil 
and held her handkerchief for a moment to her lips, which 
were trembling: then she dropped it, and confronted her 
son openly with an air of firm, swelling anger, a compact 
sort of anger, showing a nature as incapable of any hysteri- 
cal reproach as it was of forgiveness. 

“I was on the Continent with your sisters — *’ 

“Had been away for three years. Letting this house, 
everything in it, run to waste.’* 

“That had nothing to do with you — nothing whatever!” 

“It had something to do with me. I am one of the trus- 
tees for their money.” 

Mrs. Hoyland gave a little laugh, in which one might trace 
the origin of her son’s express belief that all alike live for 
themselves, fight for their own hand; it was very evident 
that she had but little faith in human nature, still less in her 
own son. 

“And you mean to insinuate that this sale was held so 
that you might reserve the money — realized from my pos- 
sessions — mine, mind you — for your sisters ?” 

“I think that my position as trustee warrants that insinu- 
ation.” 

“How you do lie, Charles ! How you always have lied ; 
not only by word, but by implication, appearances. There 
is only one virtue in your lying. You, at any rate, never 
deceive yourself as some people do.” 

“Thanks. And another — you must acknowledge that I 
do it well.” 

“Well ! You’ve overreached yourself this time. To have 
the audacity to put the notice of the sale in the paper I” 

“Only in the English papers, and not in the Queen or 
Financial News; so, you see, I thought myself safe. I was 
mistaken, it seems.” 

“You forgot that I have friends.” 

“Who read the, ‘Morning Post,* the ‘Times?* — My dear 
Mother, I’ve been a fool I” 

“You could scarcely be anything worse. And what did 
you imagine you were going to do with the money ?” 

“Travel. — It’s a family weakness.” 

“Alone?” 

“No ; I hate being bored.” 

“I see.” Once more Mrs. Hoyland raised her glasses and 


8 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


treated Miss Gavin to a comprehensive stare: then turned 
again to her son. suppose you realize that I can have 
you put in prison for this. And that’s what I intend to do. 
You — you! The amazing audacity of it — to come to my 
house in my absence — ^to hold a sale of my belongings I It 
passes the bounds of all belief — monstrous! And you 
needn’t think that people will forgive you any more easily 
because you happen to be my own son. There are some 
ideals of family life, obligations, morality, still remaining, 
thank goodness. And a widowed mother who has been 
robbed — ” 

Hoyland gave a short laugh. ‘‘Ah, yes, ‘the only son of 
his mother’ — True; I’d forgotten that part of it. The utili- 
tarian sentimentality of the English!” 

“To break into her house, her home, his sisters’ home! 
To put up to public auction the very beds they have slept 
on !” 

“But surely it is human to have lost sight of that fact 
after — what is it, three years? But I catch your point: 
‘The Home.’ There indeed, we touch upon something sa- 
cred. But in this case it’s rather like that Greek problem, — 
When does a heap begin to be a heap, cease to be a heap ? 
When does a home begin to be a home? — when degenerate 
into a mere uninhabited house ?” 

There was amusement in his voice, and there was some- 
thing like amusement at the back of the still angry glance 
which his mother bent upon him. 

“Still, I think I hold the cards, legal and emotional — 
you’ve gone too far this time.” 

“And you will play them?” 

“Oh, yes, I will play them ; don’t make any mistake about 
that. Really, Charles, ever since you were born you have 
been nothing but a nuisance and expense to me — one of 
those terribly precocious, watchful babes-in-arms. And even 
then nothing but the very best good enough for you. I 
remember how I thought — was fool enough to think — that 
your nurse might as well maid me. But — Ah, well, you 
know yourself — you were what you are. And now — Oh, 
I assure you I’m not joking, though I see the humor of the 
thing— -it will be a relief, a real relief for me to have you 
out of the way for a year or so. I’ve only to see Sir Gilbert 
Murray ; the case is clear enough — ” 

“Oh, but you’re joking! Mamma, it’s impossible— of 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


9 


course it’s impossible. Why, even you could never do a 
thing like that. — Oh, 1 know you’ve reason enough, are 
right — -in a way. But for all that — to send Charles to 
prison — to — to — ” It was the elder girl who spoke, mov- 
ing further into the room, standing with her back to one 
of tfie windows, glancing nervously from her mother to 
her brother — breaking off with an uneasy movement of her 
hands. 

As to Hoyland’s younger sister, her eyes had scarcely 
left Leila, and once, when their glances met, she had smiled; 
for to her Charles’ companion represented something des- 
perately intriguing, something which she had never so much 
as dreamt of meeting at close quarters. 

“I am sure that Charles can — will — do something to make 
up— get the things back. After all, there is no real harm 
done; and prison — !” Rose’s long, smooth face was 
flushed, her eyes full of tears ; despite this, long habit had 
made her sufficiently mistress of herself to remember her 
mother’s most vulnerable point; for it is the slightly disrepu- 
table who need to be most watchful lest any crack appear 
in their armor of respectability. “If Charles went to prison 
it wouldn’t only affect him, it would affect us — all of us! 
People would be shy of us, afraid of being dragged into any- 
thing, mixed up with us. No decent man, no man of the 
world, of our sort, would want to marry the sister of a — a — 
Oh, I’m not speaking of myself ; I know that I — Oh, I’m 
hopeless — ” she gave a little deprecating laugh, quite free 
from all bitterness. “But what about — ” she hesitated and 
dropped her voice, as though a sort of delicacy made her 
wish to believe that her alert, woman-of -the- world young 
sister was still possessed of a bloom, which must by no 
means be disturbed. She was full of these sort of odd 
twists, early Victorianisms, was Rose Hoyland; it was not 
humbug but the survival of certain fixed ideas as to what 
people ought to be at certain ages. “You must remember 
that there’s Maisie to be considered.” 

“It appears to me that I have considered my children 
enough, more than enough. If I had not given in to Charles 
in the way I have done, this couldn’t have happened. It 
never would have happened to any really selfish mother. 
I’ve been too good to you all, that’s it — too generous.” 

The weakness of this complaint told Rose that her argu- 
ment had struck home. “If you will only wait a day or two,” 


10 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


she went on quickly, “even one night — think it over; you 
must realize that it’s — Well, it would be a sort of cutting off 
your nose to spite your face, wouldn’t it? If this sale has 
been a good one — and of course we are sure of the money.’* 

“Heugh! are we? If it were possible to tie a string to 
your brother’s leg.” 

“Well, anyhow, the other thing — It would do for us, do 
for all of us.” 

“Of course it would be a pity to take any step likely to 
discourage the suitors who crowd your path, my dear Rose,” 
remarked Mrs. Hoyland cruelly. But she was fastening up 
her furs round her throat as she spoke; and though the 
girl flushed crimson she drew a breath of relief. She could 
always count upon her mother not doing a foolish thing — 
anyhow, not this sort of foolish thing — if she once gave her- 
self time to think. 

“It is horribly cold here, and perhaps if you see Sir Gil- 
bert to-morrow, just talk over things quietly with him — 
After all — ” she darted a quick glance of apology in her 
brother’s direction; but she had chosen her position well, 
drilled in that school to which she was so ill sr^’ led, and even 
her mother failed to notice it — “After all, it v ’’1 be the best, 
the surest way of keeping a hold upon Cha. es. And I’m 
sure he’ll realize that if you let him olf now, just make him 
pay everything back, it’s up to him — ” 

“Your brother’s idea of what is ‘up to him’ is very dif- 
ferent from yours, my dear Rose. ... I told that taxi man 
to wait — ” 

“He’s still there.” 

Somehow or other the elder girl maneuvered the others 
from the room. As a matter of fact, Mrs. Hoyland was un- 
certain as to the means by which she would get the greatest 
amount of satisfaction out of her son, how much the law 
allowed her; though at the door she turned and informed 
him that she was staying at the “Carlton,” and would expect 
to see him — “alone” — at twelve o’clock next morning; re- 
minding him, which was unnecessary, that she was not, as 
yet, suffering from senile decay. 

The two left behind in the empty room^ — for the workmen 
' had gone on with their tasks, regardless of the altercatioh, 
finished them and disappeared — caught the sound of a clear 
girlish voice from the stairway. “I say! I wonder what 
her name is — Awfully smart, isn’t she? What a wretch 


THE LITTLE SOUL 11 

Charles — Then the front door banged, the taxi moved 
away. 

“My revered — my ‘poor Mother’ Now you have seen 
her, Leila, been introduced to my entire family. No skele- 
tons, nothing of the sort; excellently well covered, all of 
them.” He put on his hat and picked up his cane. “No 
cupboards, even; damned little of anything! Well, as fhat 
little interlude’s over, shall we take our departure — from 
‘The Home’?” 

“She won’t — do you think she will be — ^be nasty, eh, 
C. H.?” 

“Nasty? Oh, yes, nasty in every sort of way. But if 
you mean will she have me run into prison, drag the affair 
before the courts? — no, emphatically no! You must have 
noticed, the men were still moving the furniture, and she 
made no effort to stop them, pretended not to notice. All 
the same she’ll have the money out of me, trust her for that, 
unless I can think of something — find out something — Hope- 
less, I’m afraid, though, — and our little trip knocked on the 
head, for another six months anyhow. Sorry, Leila, but 
luck’s dead against us. Twenty- four hours would have 
made all the difference — the little less, and oh, so far away — 
how does it go? — Sunshine and Monte Carlo, and all that 
makes life worth living.” 


CHAPTER II 

“Ugh, but it’s cold !” Lelia Gavin shivered as she stepped 
out into the gray quiet of the square, and glanced up at the 
small chaste slip of a moon set clear in the sky almost di- 
rectly above them. 

Hoyland did not answer. He had turned up the collar of 
his coat, sunk his chin in it with that bleak disregard for 
others which his companion had learnt to recognize and 
dread. She knew that, in common wisdom, she would do 
well to keep silent; but her nerves were all on edge, and 
after a moment or so she broke out with a little forced 
laugh : 

“You and your mother! Really, I never did see anything 
quite so inhuman! You’ve got into my spine, the pair of 
you — a sort of cold trickle of Hoylands, like icicles.”^ She 
thrust her hands deeper into her muff as she spoke, raised it 


12 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


to her chest and drew her shoulders together ; her realization 
of her lover and his mood so intense that the arm nearest to 
him was pricked with a species of ‘‘pins and needles.” 

“Talk of being artificial ! Oh, yes, I see now what makes 
you what you are — artificial through and through, both of 
you alike. Good Lord!” — of a sudden her own artificiality 
relapsed into the coarseness of real feeling — “if you were 
pricked what would you bleed? — Would you, could you 
bleed?” 

“You're scarcely what one might call a child of nature 
yourself, my dear Leila.” 

“That’s because I can only get what I want to out of life 
by adapting myself to the world I live in 1” 

Her spirits were reviving; he had spoken to her, noticed 
her. “It’s like the leopard and its spots,” she added, with a 
flash of shrewd insight — “a sort of protection. If I didn’t 
go for what was artificial in life, my life, I should get noth- 
ing but what was disgusting, gross. It’s only the veneer 
that makes it at all possible, C. H. But I’m not like that all 
through — not yet, thank God!” She spoke with a sudden 
fierceness which Hoyland had never so much as suspected, 
so cleverly had she adapted herself to his demands. “Un- 
derneath — right underneath — there’s a coarse, rough wood 
with a grain, with some sort of sap. But you, you — why, 
you’re the same all through, drunk or sober, loving, or — 
Well, I wonder if you ever have loved, ever could hate? I’d 
like to see you with any one you hated, C. H., — one’s sure 
there; and perhaps — well, perhaps I’d understand you bet- 
ter.” Her voice trailed off to a sort of wistfulness. 

“I’d like to see myself with any one I took the trouble to 
hate. I don’t let people get in my way sufficiently for that, 
my dear.” 

For a moment or so Leila was silent, biting her lip ; she 
was a fool to display any sort of emotion or feeling apart 
from that which added to his pleasure. But, somehow or 
other, she was all on edge, had for the moment lost her poSe, 
her light sureness, could have sat down and cried like a child. 
Why, she did not know, for it is certain that she had felt no 
sympathy for Mrs. Hoyland. Still, as she endeavored to 
turn the conversation, her next remark insensibly betrayed 
some part of the reason for her emotion. 

“I like that eldest sister of yours ; she looks so” — she was 
going to say “good,” but changed the word, with a little 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


13 


laugh, to ‘‘reliable.” “A sort of bedside person, nice if one 
was ill. My word, but I expect she has a life of i,t with 
your mother !” 

“Rose? Old Rose! My dear! — Rose! Talk of dull- 
ness! If my mother didn’t find her useful as a doormat 
she’d throw her out of the window. The little one, now — 
oh, there are possibilities about Maisie.” 

“She? Oh, she didn’t interest me ; she’s too like — like — ” 
she was going to say “all of us,” but checked herself in time. 
“Look here, C. H., it’s got nothing to do with me, of course, 
but your mother will have to keep a pretty tight hand on 
that kid.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, well, the come-hither eye, don’t you know.” 

“I wonder if you’re right? Anyhow, it’s not the sort of 
life for a young girl, if one wants her to marry — marry well. 
But what makes you think — ?” 

“My dear! I’ve had some little experience of human 
nature, haven’t I?” They were moving along Knights- 
bridge, and she scanned the passing traffic, already flashing 
with lights. 

As they neared Hyde Park Corner her light step grew less 
sure, her delicate face was flushed. “I wish we could get a 
taxi ; I’m tired. I’m always tired now ; it’s this rotten cold ! 
If only we could have got away into the sunshine!” As 
her companion did not answer, she relapsed into silence, 
then began again, shifting the parcel of curtains, with a 
petulant movement, from one arm to another. “It’s carry- 
ing this thing makes me tired. I wish I’d never bought it. 
I hate carrying parcels !” 

“My dear Leila,” Hoyland’s tone was pleasant enough, 
but the girl at his side knew the sound of that “dear Leila,” 
knew that he was out to hurt. It was her own fault; she 
was being tiresome ; she knew that she was being tiresome, 
and yet for once she couldn’t help it — “that’s almost funny 
when one gathers, from hearsay, observation, that your 
mother habitually carried home the washing — other people’s 
washing! A little parcel like that — ” 

It was rather pathetically significant of their relationship 
that he had not even offered to take it from her, that she 
had not expected him to offer. But, for all this, his words 
found their mark — “It’s not true, it’s not true. You know 
it’s not true. My mother was a lady.” 


14 THE LITTLE SOUL 

“OH, yes, my dear, that goes without saying; they all 
are. ^ . 

He smiled benevolently upon the girl as he hailed a pass- 
ing taxi and helped her into it — for she had been given her ; 
punishment, put back in her place — ^then raised his hat. | 
“Well, au revoirf* , . . I 

“But aren’t you coming?” She had drawn aside her 
skirts to make room for him, still held them back, with 
hands that trembled a little. I 

“No, thanks. I want some exercise. I’ll walk down I 
through St. James’ to the Club.” i 

“But Clare ! — we were expecting you to tea.” 

“Clare will be very well amused without me. You can j 
plan the cushions and the opera-cloak.” He drew a handful I 
of loose silver from his pocket and dropped it into her lap. 
“For the taxi. And now I’ll say good-by until — Well, if 
you’re going to be alone, at a loose end, what about some 
sort of show this evening; supper together?” 

There was something perfunctory about the invitation. 
Hoyland’s voice sounded bored, almost tired, for him, and 
Leila pulled herself together ; this was what she had always 
set herself to guard against. 

/ “Not to-night, C. H. I feel lazy, inclined for a quiet 
evening by my own fireside. And there’s that book of plays 
you lent me.” 

This was another point in her favor, an unexpected link 
in her armor. She read everything of note which appeared : 
French or English poetry, prose, plays; and not only read 
— thought, criticized, showed a fine discrimination. 

She did not ask Hoyland to share her quiet; she knew 
better than that. If he wished to come he would do so 
without any invitation. She also knew that he would not 
— as nine men out of ten in his position — drop in upon her, 
driven by suspicion as to whom he might find there. 

He had, more than once, indeed, put in an appearance 
when she was entertaining other men. But he had brushed 
them aside, taken no notice of them ; save upon one occasion, 
when her visitor had happened to be an expert upon the 
Balkan question — which interested him — just back from 
Serbia. And then it was Leila herself who was put on one 
side. For it was only when people are mistrustful of them- 
selves that they suffer from jealousy, and to Hoyland’s mind 
there was no more amusing, more futile failing. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


15 


CHAPTER III 

Clare Whitman was Leila’s great friend. The two had 
been on the musical-comedy stage together. Leila had a 
delicate voice which did not go far enough; her whole 
physique was too delicate to be altogether effectual over the 
footlights. 

She had spoken the truth when she had said her mother 
was a lady, though perhaps “ladylike” would have better 
described her. She had been a nursery governess. Who 
her father was Leila did not know! 

Apart from that one lapse which accounted for the girl’s 
birth Mrs. Gavin, as she called herself, was a pathetically 
virtuous woman. If she did not earn her living by the sweat 
of her brow she earned it by a pitiless waste of nerve-tissue ; 
by blind effort and self-obliteration; by a self-denial so 
ceaselessly practiced that in tfie end personal desires, vanities, 
likes, dislikes, became atrophied. Her every look, her every 
movement was an oblation and offering for that one sin. 

As far back as Leila could remember, her mother had been 
thin, white, suffering; ill-dressed, ill-groomed; so sad that 
it seemed as though she must be suffering from some dread- 
ful internal cancer. And so she was : her sense of forfeited 
respectability, her self-reproach devouring the flesh. 

When Leila began to realize something of life, as she did 
very young, she wondered how her mother could have ever 
seemed desirable to any one. Vice might be ugly, but could 
anything be more killing than such virtue, under such con- 
ditions? Mrs. Gavin went from lesson to lesson, teaching 
French and music at a shilling an hour to the children of 
small tradesmen and superior artisans. Sometimes, while 
Leila was still very young and could not be left, she accom- 
panied her mother when she went to give these lessons. 
Her presence at such times — well, at any time, if it came to 
that — could be tolerated only on the condition that she sat 
in a corner, said nothing, obliterated herself. 

So long as she lived she could never forget those hours 
during which she sat silent in the corners of butchers’ par- 
lors, bakers’ parlors, plumbers’ parlors; her feet dangling, 
the prick of horsehair or coarse furniture-velvet beneath 
her bare knees, the almost intolerable fidgets from which 


16 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

she suffered; the way in which the hands of the clocks 
seemed to stop, deliberately, maliciously in one place, while 
the world fainted to a full stop between each tick. 

Never, never could she forget the stuffy smell of such 
places. To shut her eyes and think of it, gave her a sense 
of nausea — the bright-green tablecloths, scalloped in red, 
the chromo-lithographs, the ornaments on the mantelpieces. 
Above all, she could never forget the children, who seemed 
so oddly true to their father’s trade : the fair, fat children 
of the baker; the red, stocky children of the butcher; the 
leaden-eyed offspring of the plumber. It might have been 
partly imagination, but that was the way in which she al- 
ways remembered them. The only kind, the only cheerful 
people with whom her mother’s duties brought her into con- 
tact seemed to be the Jews. 

The Jewish mothers alone treated her like a real child; 
not like an umbrella, to be put away into a corner until the 
lesson was at an end. 

At the French lessons the pupils were one and all so stu- 
pid that her sharp little mind leapt on in front of them at 
each sentence, each hesitating noun and verb. She suffered 
agonies in her efforts to keep from prompting, showing off, 
deriding. At the music lessons she galloped up and down 
the piano after the stiff, stupid fingers, for ever fumbling: 
her own tiny, snowflake of a hand, with every nerve alive, 
plump upon the right note — ^beating it out upon her shabby 
blue serge skirt — while theirs still hung, flaccid, lumpish or 
wooden above the wrong one. 

She used to repeat to herself, very quickly, in a sort of 
running refrain, which gave her some comfort, the words : 
‘Tittle silly ! — little idiot' ! — Oh, you little silly, silly, silly !” 

And yet if one of them wept or despaired — though they 
took no notice of her whatever — her heart bled for them. 

^ Never, never under any circumstances did she utter one 
single word during the course of those lessons ; and here 
she learnt a lesson of self-control as necessary in her future 
profession— her relationship with Charles Hoyland, for in- 
stance — as it is in every other walk of life. 

She loved her mother, but she was frightened of her. 
There was always something about her which was held back 
frorn the child, and in her earliest days, when she was most 
sensitive, she fought constantly against this barrier. As a 
tiny creature of not more than five she remembered how 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


17 


she had one day, in a sudden access of feeling, flown at her 
mother shaking her arm and crying aloud: “What is it? 
Oh, what is it? You must tell me what it is!” her voice 
rising to a scream, the tears pouring down her face ; though 
when questioned it was impossible for her to explain the 
root of her trouble. 

Another incident which she never quite forgot was seeing 
a mother and child playing together for the first time : roll- 
ing on the hearthrug, pulling each other’s hair, tickling each 
other, laughing. A mother laughing 1 — disheveled, rosy, 
laughing — above all, laughing! 

Everything in life seemed to grow increasingly ugly as 
her powers of observation, comparison, increased: the two 
poor rooms where they lived, the food they ate, the setting 
of the table, the clothes, the coarse calico lining to her 
frocks, the rough seams ; the drabbish wool of her under- 
wear, tortured out of all shape by constant washing indoors, 
drying before the sitting-room fire, in front of which some 
hideous garment or other seemed to be for ever steaming 
and dripping. For Mrs. Gavin never had time or spirit, or 
material or space, to do anything quite effectually. 

One Christmas a Jewish mother gave Leila a box of choc- 
olates tied round by a narrow blue ribbon, and surrepti- 
tiously she ran this, with the help of a hairpin, through the 
coarse lace which edged the neck of her nightdress. She 
had seen lovely beribboned garments in the shop-windows, 
and hoped much from it. But the effect was disappointing, 
and her mother incomprehensibly angry when she saw what 
had been done. 

“Now, thit’s the sort of thing that I won’t have — the 
beginning! You naughty, naughty girl — you vain little 
thing, you ! To start like that now ! Good God, what 
have I done ! what have I brought upon myself ! After all 
my teaching, all my care !” 

To Leila’s amazement she broke down at this — ^wept — 
and she had never before seen her mother weep despite all 
their difficulties, all their deprivations, often enough verging 
upon starvation — wept as though she were suddenly beaten, 
hopeless, ready to give up the fight. 

When Leila was fifteen a situation in a fashionable mil- 
liner’s shop was found for her, through the instance of some 
relative of a pupil. Mrs. Gavin did not like it, though the 
girl could not make out what she feared, or why she feared. 


18 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


But she was by now an ever-increasing expense in the way 
of food and clothing; it was plain that she must do some- 
thing, and nothing else offered. 

At first she was little better than a runner, at the beck 
and call of every one. Then she rose to a place in the 
show-room, where her delicate beauty and refinement were 
assets worth considering. No amount of conscientious hard 
work could have helped her to this : already there was noth- 
ing about her which seemed to count apart from her looks. 

She spent her days among beautiful materials, articles of 
luxury; among women — a thousand times less attractive 
than herself — who thought of nothing but their appearance ; 
who poured out a continual stream of gold as a libation to 
their one god. — self. 

At night she went home to two drab, overcrowded rooms ; 
to a dull meal, in which the changes — so familiar to every 
working- woman — were rung upon a doubtful egg, a quarter 
of a pound of cold ham from the pork butcher, a slice of 
German sausage, a kipper ; with the eternal tea, bread, and 
salt butter ; to a mother whose moods of silent, bitter melan- 
choly became more and more frequent, until they spread 
into one unbroken desert of depression. 

When Leila was seventeen her mother died : not from any 
special illness, but for the dull reason that she was worn-out, 
like some piece of machinery which has been kept running 
for years, at high pressure, without repairs or lubrication. 

She had never once mentioned the girl’s father; she left 
no letter or photograph to show what he had been like. 
Probably enough she had forgotten her fellow-sinner in her 
sense of sin, the very memory of him stamped out under the 
leaden feet of those hard, drab days. 

For a few months Leila stayed on in the millinery business. 
But the pay was insufficient now that she was alone. She 
made a friend; she obtained a walking-on part in a revue, 
another part in a chorus, still another with a little song and 
dance of her own ! But even thus she could not stand alone ; 
every step depended upon the favor of some man or 
other. 

She and Qare had embarked upon their stage career to- 
gether. Clare was coarser, stronger, more vital, more in- 
sistent than Leila : the friends she made were of a different 
quality; but she held her own with them in a way that the 
other girl could never do. She had a strong, rather strident 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


19 


voice and a fine figure. Flesh and noise being all that the 
English audience ask for they got their money’s worth with 
Clare Whitman : to see her dash on to the stage, stamp her 
foot, throw back her head and show all her teeth in a chal- 
lenging grin was enough. They did not mind what she sang, 
so long as she sang it loudly, while the orchestra brayed some 
asinine accompaniment. 

She was “the real thing,” and after a while her salary be- 
came “the real thing” also. She knew what she was worth : 
there was no false modesty about Clare. 

But she was kind ; oh, she was kind. The lean times, the 
illnesses, the period of childish panic through which she sup- 
ported her friend were innumerable. Again and again she 
made it a point in accepting any engagement that Leila 
should be given a part in the same play. But one thing 
she never attempted, and that was to keep the other girl 
what was called “straight.” Where would have been the 
use of that? Why, it was the sort of thing that even she 
could scarcely afford, much less Leila, whose one chance of 
progress, of any sort of life, lay through the affection or 
desire of others. 

Leila, sensitive, dainty, delicate, with no reserve of phys- 
ical strength, simply could not afford to be moral ; that was 
the fact of the matter : that was what Clare said — though of 
course there was no question of the words “moral” or “im- 
moral” — “too particular” was the expression which she — 
which they all — used; and was it any wonder that Leila 
with her repugnance for, her shrinking from, everything 
which was dull, ugly, cheap, agreed with her? Though all 
the same she was “particular,” more particular by far than 
Clare, who could well afford to pick and choose. 

Clare had a family — a dreadful old mother, two idle, ne’er- 
do-well brothers — one with a wife and family, his sole asset 
in life — who condemned and yet sponged upon her without 
ceasing. She did not mind: she was fond of them; they 
were her “own little lot”; but all her real wealth of affec- 
tion, concern, was lavished upon her friend. She was as 
anxious, as watchful and concerned, with any new admirers 
of Leila’s as a wealthy and devoted mother over the choice 
of a nurse for her first-born. 

When Leila left the stage Clare acquiesced. She could 
never live by it ; if she went on, the fatigue, anxiety, constant 
trials and disappointments would undermine her health; if 


20 


THE LITTLE SOLL 


her health went her looks would go, and then what would 
there be left for her to depend upon? 

There was one lover of whom Clare did not approve, be- 
cause he was rough and coarse ; and yet he was a good sort. 
Hoyland was not a good sort; but Leila was happier than 
she had ever been — ^though of course it was dangerous for 
her to be in love in this fashion — and on the whole he suited 
her admirably. 

Still, Clare was watchful, like a mother-bird with plumage 
all ready to ruffle. 

Over their tea in the tiny Westminster flat, this evening 
of the sale, with the rose-and-gray curtains spread out across 
the sofa, Clare was distinctly troubled. Leila did not seem 
well. She began with a parade of great good spirits. She 
was a much better actress off the stage than on it, and her 
mimicry of Hoyland’s mother was delightful ; the way in 
which she puffed herself out, drew herself up, stared through 
an imaginary lorgnette. She declared that she was famished, 
attacked her tea with a huge pretense of greed ; and she was 
greedy ; she loved hot buttered toast, chocolate' cakes. But 
after a few mouthfuls she began to feed her Pekinese ; forgot 
Mrs. Hoyland, forgot the brocade curtains, and threw her- 
self down upon the sofa, crumpling them up beneath her. 
Nothing mattered, nothing was any good; she was dead- 
tired. 

Clare took off her shoes for her, rubbed her little silk-clad 
feet, banked her round with cushions. When Chang, the 
Pekinese, settled himself upon the top of these as though 
they were placed there for his comfort alone, Leila laughed, 
pretended that she was going to kick him off. But she did 
not laugh for long. 

“Oh, why am I so tired ? Why am I always tired ?’’ she 
complained, and dropping her head upon her friend’s shoul- 
der began to cry. 

Clare had never seen her cry before. Most women of her 
sort are almost as ready with tears as laughter. But Leila 
had learnt her lesson sitting silent in the butchers’ and 
bakers’ parlors, trying to keep up with her mother during 
those breathless scurries from lesson to lesson ; never com- 
plaining, lest she should be left alone at home. Even now 
she wondered why she wept; and then, remembering the 
blue ribbon incident, told her friend of it. 

“I can’t have been a very desperately naughty kid, if that 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


21 


was the only thing I ever did to drive her to tears, poor 
dear ! could I ?” she said. “But I wasn’t naughty — no 
chance! All I wanted was to be happy.” 

That was all she ever wanted. It seemed cruel that so 
simple, so universal a desire should not be fulfilled; though 
Heaven only knows what has led to such an expectation in 
any human being. As a matter of fact, she had been very 
well content for the last couple of years ; free from the anx- 
iety, the snubs of stage-life. People were kind to her, she 
had pretty things round her, life was easy; she could be as 
lazy as she liked, and, like a great many not very strong 
people, she loved to dawdle, lounge, dream. 

Since her connection with Hoyland, which had started 
nearly six months earlier, she was in some ways happier 
than she had ever been before ; and yet, in other ways, un- 
happier : everything was sharper, her very skin felt thinner. 
He gave her a great deal, and yet with love she grew to de- 
sire more than he gave ; though what that was she could not 
have said. It is certain that marriage never so much as 
entered her head. No one less like Mrs. Gavin than Charles 
Hoyland could well be imagined, and yet she felt to him as 
she had felt towards her mother, as though she could shake 
him, with that old cry: “What is it? What is it? — Oh, 
what is it?” 

There was something which she could never get at, under- 
stand, at the back of them both; that was the fact of the 
matter, and it frightened her. 

With all her other admirers nothing had really mattered : 
she did not in the least care what they were thinking, how 
they passed their time away from her, what their real, every- 
day life and relationships were like ; but with Hoyland 
she was devoured by a curiosity which carried a constant 
heart-ache. She was harassed by that dreadful, that fatal 
desire to possess everything which comes to women when 
they love. 

And yet her old, hardly-won self-control held : sometimes 
she feared that it must break away from her, that one day 
she would be overcome by a passionate desire to express all 
that she felt ; but for the meanwhile it held.^ 

Clare could not stay to dinner ; she was in the first scene 
of a musical comedy which began early, and waited until 
supper-time for her real meal, on account of her voice. But 
she saw her friend’s dinner brought in to her, daintily set 


22 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


out on a tray by Leila’s maid, who would do anything- for 
her mistress, because she allowed herself to be patronized, 
treated like a child. 

Directly she reached the theater Clare rang up a telephone 
number in Soho, asked for Doctor McCa&. ‘‘I want to 
speak to Doctor McCabe, please.” 

‘‘It’s Doctor McCabe speaking.” 

“Oh, Phil, I didn’t recognize your voice ; it’s Clare Whit- 
man. Look here, I want you to go round to Leila after 
you’ve had your dinner. Go early, there’s a dear, or she 
may be off to bed — that’s the sort of mood she’s in.” 

“Not ill, I hope?” 

“N-no, not ill ; got the pip. I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

“Hoyland all right I suppose ?” 

“Umph ! I’d like to know when he isn’t all right. Trust 
him for that!” Something in the sound of her own voice 
revealed to Clare, for the first time, how thoroughly she dis- 
liked this friend of her friend. If only he wasn’t always 
so completely all right! 

“Well — Oh, I say, Clare — if it’s nothing very urgent, 
there’s a bit of a beano on at ^The Scarlet Paint-Pot’ to- 
night — Dolly Lane’s birthday — sing-song, dancing and all 
that sorter thing. You’d better come along when your 
show’s over. But about Leila — ” 

“Look here, Phil, go to Leila first, there’s a good fellow. 
You’ll have plenty of time. Get her to go on with you if 
she will; it’s ages since she’s been to any of those sorter 
giddy little shows. Yes, do get her to go, if you can.” 

“She’s not ill, then ?” 

“No, no, not ill, of course — I said not ill ; but, oh, all any- 
how. You will go, won’t you, Phil?” 

“Of course I will. Don’t you worry — take her with me 
to Dolly’s party. Hope to God Hoyland won’t cut up rough, 
though — 

“Oh, damn Hoyland ! — he considers himself quite enough 
without us droppin’ our socks over him. Ta-ta, old chap. 
You’re a good sort, Phil, and that’s a fact. Pretty well 
the only person in this darned old world one can always 
count on.” 

Leila had not gone to bed when McCabe arrived, nor had 
she got on very far with her book ; she had changed into a 
tea-gown, done her hair, tidied herself up, in case any one 
should come; then, that brief effort over, returned to her 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


23 


sofa. For some days it had seemed as though something 
queer was happening to her life; almost as though there 
were a tiny patch of gray mold on the edge of it — the sort 
of thing which one might find just above the sole of a suede 
shoe worn in weather for which it was not fitted — spreading 
and spreading; damping her down, as it were, sapping her 
vitality, dimming everything. She was gay enough when 
she was with Hoyland, but the gayety was an effort, mingled 
with fear. 

She was glad to see McCabe because she liked him, be- 
cause she would have been glad to see any one ; for she was 
not, after all, in the mood to be alone. He dragged her sofa 
more in front of the fire — that was the sort of thing which 
he always thought of ; as much a nurse as a doctor — ^and sat 
down in a low chair at her side. For a while they smoked 
and talked. McCabe knew all her world; sometimes, with 
a sort of bitter fatalism he thought that there might be a 
time at hand when he would know no other. 

Leila ordered coffee and liquors. After that McCabe sug- 
gested that they should go to the cafe which had been one of 
her most frequent haunts in the days before she met Hoyland 
< — a place which had gradually slipped into being more club 
than restaurant, frequented by much the same clientele each 
evening, with a stout, beaming proprietor and full-breasted, 
tight-corseted wife, who regarded them all alike as children. 
Leila knew Dolly, who would be only too delighted to see 
her at her party. 

‘‘YouVe forsaken all of us, lately you know,” added 
McCabe. 

Leila was pleased at the idea. It always delighted her to 
have the doctor^s company at any such festivity; it amused 
her to witness — always with affection — ^his ungainly gambols, 
to hear his shouts of laughter; to see the way in which he 
threw off his deep, almost habitual melancholy; while at 
the same time there was some sense of tragedy deep down 
in her own nature responsive to his sudden lapses into si- 
lence, his somber dreaming. 

On this particular night, however, anything would have 
seemed preferable to being stuck indoors, with the endless 
night in front of her. She went into her bedroom to dress, 
giving directions to her maid, and talking to McCabe through 
the open door at the same time. 

“Fll wear my green-and-blue, Freda. You’ll like that, 


24 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Phil; it’s so comic; and I adore funny clothes — a sort of 
Turkish trouser affair — just the very thing for a party like 
this. You’ll see.” 

She had one shoulder out of her gown, when, all of a sud- 
den, there was that feeling of dust and ashes which had 
come over her more than once of late, and she changed her 
mind; hunched herself back into her tea-gown again, and 
returning to the sitting-room flung herself on the sofa. 

“Oh, I can’t go, Pip. I’m dead-tired — done to a turn — 
not fit for human society! No, no, Freda; only to think 
of squeezing into those wretched things after being on my 
feet all day. Phil, I walked miles and miles — literally miles ! 
I’m done to the world. For God’s sake don’t stand staring 
at me like that, Freda. Take those silly shoes away — I tell 
you I’m not going out. And you, Phil, don’t look at me 
like that — go along to your party ; leave me alone. For the 
Lord’s sake leave me alone I” 

“What about your gold shoes? They’re an easier 
fit. . . .” 

“Didn’t I say I don’t want to go ? How stupid you are, 
Freda.” 

“Oh, very well !” The maid turned away from the door- 
way where she had reappeared with the gold shoes in her 
hand. “If some people knew their own mind!” she mut- 
tered in a huff. 

For a moment Leila was silent, pouting; then she called 
to her: “Freda, come here; bring me my mules. Oh, don’t 
be such an ass — so silly !” 

The girl brought the pale-blue mules, with their edging 
of white fur; as she stooped to put them on, still sulky, 
Leila laid her hand against her cheek, patted it : “I’m a pig, 
a beast — ^better give me notice — leave me alone; though 
what I should do without you — ” 

“You’re a naughty girl, that’s what you are,” said the maid, 
and gave the foot she held against her knee a little affectionate 
pat, got up and moved towards the bedroom, then hesitated : 

“Better tell the doctor all about it now he’s ’ere,” she said 
with averted face ; and turning into the next room shut the 
door behind her. 

Leila stared after her with wide eyes. “What in the 
world . . . ?” she began, and stopped short, while the color 
flooded over her face, then ebbed away, leaving her white 
and trembling. It was as though the girl’s words had given 


:rHE LITTLE SOUL 25 

acfual form to what, up to then, had been nothing more than 
a vague sense of uneasiness. 

For a good couple of minutes she sat upright, staring 
blankly in front of her: then bent low over her dog, pull- 
ing its ears, while the spoilt beast whimpered. 

McCabe had risen, was standing on the hearthrug, looking 
down at her, his cigarette in his hand. He was an im- 
mensely tall man, with high, stooping shoulders and dark, 
prematurely-gray hair, of which one lock had a trick of fall- 
ing over his right eyebrow : his large, deep-set brown eyes 
were tired and bloodshot ; his black coat was crumpled and 
in need of brushing, his linen white but frayed round the 
wrists. He had big ears and a fine forehead and chin; in- 
deed, the whole structure of his face was fashioned upon 
noble lines, but his reddened skin, the pouches under those 
bloodshot eyes, a sort of stiffness in his movements showed 
that he was in some way playing ducks-and-drakes with his 
life, the uncommon capabilities shown in the very shape of 
his head. His sensitive mouth, his beautifully-formed though 
large hands — at the end of rather long, ungainly arms — alone 
seemed to show what sort of a man he ought by rights to 
have been; while it was remarkable that the curves of the 
lips, which are usually the first part of a face to coarsen, 
should yet remain so austere and, in a way, sweet. 

He was a man of thirty-five, who had been expelled from 
his school the very day after winning an important scholar- 
ship; at least, the sentence of expulsion was pronounced, 
although, in recognition of his general ability, of so much 
that was fine in character, his father was permitted to sum- 
mon him home as though upon some urgent private busi- 
ness. 

The remainder of his life was pretty well all on a par with 
this. He was brilliantly clever ; at Oxford there was 
scarcely any honor in science to which he did not attain ; and 
yet he was always in some trouble or other. To most peo- 
ple his amazing interludes of hard drinking, reckless horse- 
play, sordid love-affairs, incriminating adventures, above all, 
his flocks of undesirable friends, both male and female, 
were absolutely bewildering in contrast with his scholarship, 
his beautifully fine and unerring research work, his capacity 
for weeks and weeks of unswerving devotion to any task 
which he happened to have in hand; while his almost in- 
fallible judgment, the brilliant clarity of his conclusions in 


26 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


relation to his work, were only balanced by his complete 
incapacity to judge character, weigh motives. 

Among the hosts of friends who battened upon him there 
were very few who cared to understand him, to wonder why 
he wasted himself upon them — ^apart from a few women, and 
these not at all what is known as ‘‘good women.” Those 
were a little frightened of him, inclined to draw aside their 
skirts ; he took up too much room, both mentally and physi- 
cally, in the close little higher-thought, new-art, or tame, 
socialistically-decorated parlors c " uieir minds; was an awk- 
ward sort of person to let loose among their intellectual 
bric-a-brac. The other young men in gray flannels, with 
thin-lipped, half-open mouths, reii eating foreheads and big 
pipes, fought shy of him — he wa^- I’t good form ; wasn’t in 
the right set. But those disrep able women! Somehow 
or other they got at the root of that weakness which was to 
have so disastrous an effect upon Philip McCabe’s life, when 
they declared that he was^ “too kind.” 

His tutor, who liked him, believed in him — ^and, standing 
by him, amazed at the man’s intellectual ability, was driven 
to the first frantic and blasphemous utterances his wife ever 
heard from his lips — found himself drawn to the same con- 
clusion. Setting himself to the study of McCabe’s misdeeds, 
as a whole, he realized that every one was the result of try- 
ing to do a good turn to some one or other, often enough in 
the most ridiculous and quixotic fashion. 

He backed other men’s bills, shouldered their debts — ^be- 
cause So-and-So had just lost his mother — ^because So-and- 
So’s father was a parson and darned hard-up; flaunted his 
friendship with the most undesirable persons, because other 
people were such “rotten Pharisees, confounded scandal- 
mongers 1” 

But, apart from a fluctuating and not over-insistent taste 
for strong drink — really, it seemed as though he only got 
drunk because he did not like other fellows to feel that t&y 
were making fools of themselves while he stood apart — it 
was with women that his greatest source of trouble was to 
be found. 

And the odd part of the whole thing was that he did not 
fall in love with them, that he was shy of them, oddly rev- 
erent in the most unexpected ways; anything but a prac- 
ticed Don Juan, ordinary seducer. But — Oh, well ! that was 
just it — he was “too kind” : he seemed to be for ever pick- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


27 


ing up with other men’s leavings. Any woman who was 
deserted, ill-treated, sick, poor, in any sort of trouble, was 
certain of help from McCabe; and he was entirely whole- 
hearted in all that he did, without judgment or reservations. 
If comforting meant kissing, kissing it should be, and no 
stint about it. 

It was later, when he had taken his degree, was walking 
the hospitals, even more when he started upon his maternity 
course among the very poor, that his real trouble began. 
With him pity was a passion as warm, fierce, overwhelming 
as, let us say, love, with most men. There was never any 
companion who could be more jovial and reckless, more full 
of quaint stories, of odd, and often enough indecent, conceits. 
And yet at the bottom of all this the real man was weighed 
down by a sense of the eternal tragedy of life; the futility 
of everything, the endless suffering and disappointment; 
the waste of emotion; the bitter helplessness of humanity. 
No one human being could really do anything to help an- 
other, that was what it came to ; impossible tO' move a step to 
the rescue without upsetting some balance or treading some 
one else under foot : let alone annihilating oneself, as certain 
male insects must needs do, on the altar of love. 

In all this welter of suffering it seemed to him that women 
were the most helpless. His mother had spent her life, 
ultimately lost it, over the perpetual bearing of children, 
none of which apart from himself — the eldest — had sur- 
vived for more than a few months ; while his father, a pillar 
of the Church, went on his way confident that everything 
was right in this best of all worlds. 

For women to be true to their nature, to their best instincts 
of loving, giving, mothering, was paramount to throwing 
themselves under the feet of some Moloch, which they were 
fools enough to run forward to meet. He did not realize 
the number of heartless, calculating women there are in the 
world, because he never came in touch with them. He never 
sought out women — though he was on terms of good-fellow- 
ship with many — and it was the weak and unresourceful 
who came to him with their troubles. The others, who were 
well able to manage their own affairs, regarded him a little 
scornfully as the sort of person who could be easily taken in. 

How he escaped getting into serious trouble over the uses 
to which he put his medical knowledge it is difficult to say, 
for his exceptional ability rendered him noticeable ; but it is 


28 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


certain that more than once he was suspected, warned by 
members of his own profession, and — more kindly, more tol- 
erantly — ^by that most tolerant of all fraternities, the Metro- 
politan Police. One might help a life, which, with a little 
lack of care would never survive, into a . world that was 
eminently antagonistic, unwilling to acknowledge it; but 
any sort of interference in the other direction was strictly 
forbidden. The law was explicit upon this point, and it 
was right, for there must be no tampering with what is 
technically known as “Offenses against the Race,” hard 
though it seems that the momentary weakness or vanity of 
one empty-headed girl should set in train an endless suc- 
cession of miserable human beings. 

At one time McCabe found himself in such a position that 
there was nothing left for him but to leave the country, for 
a while at least, and he went to Paris, where he remained 
for close upon four years ; and where, to tell the truth, his 
abilities were far more clearly recognized than he could ever 
hope for them to be in England. But he was miserable 
away from London, felt himself out of touch with the 
French character, and was glad enough to return and take 
up a precarious private practice in West Central London: 
for the hospitals — knowing nothing for certain — fought shy 
of him : he was too clever, too unusual, if nothing else. 

He and Charles Hoyland had been at the same public 
school ; and later on at the University together, though not at 
the same college. There were never two men more diverse 
in character. Hoyland cared for nobody but himself; if 
there was one exception it might be found in his regard for 
Philip McCabe, though not even for him would he have made 
the least sacrifice, taken the smallest risk. He had never al- 
lowed himself to deteriorate outwardly, as his friend had 
done ; but his very soul, if he possessed one, was atrophied 
by persistent self-indulgence, even more intellectual than 
physical ; stultified by that most barren of all vices, contempt. 

He was never diverted from anything upon which he had 
set his mind by compunction, though he might be by fas- 
tidiousness ; while pride and scorn of the general herd stood 
him in the place of self-respect. 

No^ one ever tried to overreach Hoyland ; no one was ever 
familiar with, or impertinent to, him, in these davs. Nobody 
had ever loved him, apart from McCabe — with his boundless 
belief in human nature — and a few unfortunate women. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


29 


Above all, failure and misfortune had both alike passed him 
by. He had done well at Oxford without any apparent ef- 
fort or curtailment of his pleasures; been called to the Bar 
and settled himself in one of the most comfortable sets of 
rooms in the Temple, all because it gave him a certain stand- 
ing, while the Temple was a pleasant and convenient place 
to live in ; but he did not exert himself to obtain clients. 

Sometimes it seemed to McCabe as though he were forever 
traveling in the wake of the other man, picking up the bits. 
He thought of this now, as he stood upon Leila Gavin’s hearth- 
rug. She was pressing her dog to her breast, as though she 
found comfort in lavishing affection upon something. The 
little creature’s bulging eyes glanced sideways at McCabe, 
half-triumphant, half-fearful : it was plain that it was getting 
the best of things ; and yet the great brute who usurped the 
best of the fire was a man ; and one never knew what might 
happen with a man ; for to the depths of its miserable little 
soul it trembled at the very thought of Hoyland. Shut away 
from its mistress at ordinary times, it yelped, whined, scratched 
all the paint from the lower half of the door. Bundled out of 
sight when Hoyland arrived upon the scenes, it stayed in its 
basket, or crept away under the bed, remained silent, motion- 
less, with its head hidden between its paws until he was gone. 

“Come, Leila,” said McCabe, “better have it out, eh?” 

“Phil, you won’t tell C. H. whatever you think — imagine ? 
— and of course it’s nothing, nothing at all. Only that idiot, 
Freda. . . . But whatever happens, whatever happens, swear 
you’ll never, never tell — never so much as hint a word, never 
so long as you live, to any one — above all, to himj* 

“Of course not, if you don’t want me to. Doctors and 
priests, you know.” 

“Under your oath — whatever happens?” 

“Of course, of course.” He spoke with a smile, but in the 
depths of his heart was the cry: “Not again, oh, good Lord! 
not again I” — a sense of fierce revolt, a determination to 
consider himself, his career. What good could he do any 
one if he went on and on to ruin? 

Then Leila told him of what — Oh, no, not what she feared 
but what she imagined, that Freda was so stupid and im- 
pertinent as to suspect. She was tired because she was run 
down ; likely enough she had caught a slight chill ; that might 
account for much. For awhile she called to her aid some 
of that airy nonchalance which she used with Hoyland; 


30 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


then, as McCabe persisted in his questions, her face grew 
whiter, her smile more fixed, almost silly. 

After he had sent her into her room to loosen her clothes, 
examined her, there was no doubt about it. Freda was 
right; that fear which she had refused to acknowledge, 
thrust away at the back of her consciousness, was no longer 
even a fear but a fact; in a few months, between six and 
seven, she must expect to become a mother. 

He wanted to go and find Hoyland, tell him what had 
happened; but Leila entreated him not to, reminded him 
of his promise — 

“He would never, never speak to me again — he simply 
wouldn’t be bothered with me!” she cried, and McCabe 
knew that she was right. 

Her one comfort lay in the thought that Hoyland would 
not want her to go abroad with him now, after all, with that 
disappointment over the money from the sale. “If he had 
been going, set his heart upon my going too, and I refused, 
there would be an end of everything. He simply can’t bear 
people going against him. But now, Phil, I’ve got more 
time, and you must help me, Phil — you must help me. Of 
course you will. It’s quite easy — no reason to worry myself 
now I’ve you to depend on — ” She glanced at his face and 
hesitated; a little of her sureness sliding from her, a chill 
sense of fear, incredulity taking its place. “Of course — you 
don’t mean — ^}^ou don’t imagine that I could go dragging on 
like this, month after month, — and then, then — ^ It would 
simply kill me. Oh, I know now why my mother looked 
like she did — ^because she went through with it. She never 
seemed quite real before — I don’t think one’s own people 
ever do — but now, now — ! And he would find out — of 
course he’d find out. But if you’ll only help me. I’ll go 
away for a week or so and get it over. I don’t mind what 
I suffer, don’t mind anything, anything — so long as I can 
get out of it. I must get out of it — must get out of it ! It’ll 
be quite easy, if only — ” 

“Look here,^ Leila, it’s no good you talking like that. I 
can’t do anything — you know I can’t.” 

“But you can, you can — ^you can I Every one knows that 
doctors can if they choose. Phil, you couldn’t forsake me 
— you wouldn’t forsake me ! Why, you helped that Filson 
woman, and you didn’t know her half so well as me. You’re 
fond of me, Phil, dear old Phil, we’ve always been such 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


31 


friends/’ She caught his hand and laid her cheek against it. 
“Phil, Pd kill myself, I would — I would — if I didn’t know 
you would help me. You couldn’t behave so to any woman 
— you couldn’t — Phil — dear Phil!” She was half off the 
sofa, clinging to him. With the monstrous selfishness of 
love and fear, she never even stopped to wonder why he 
“couldn’t behave so,” why he should be forever expected to 
repair the damage wrought by other men, plastering it up 
with his own good name, degrading the profession of which 
he was in reality so proud. 

“Phil, Phil, you will, you must help me! Phil! Why 
don’t you speak? — why don’t you say something? — why do 
you torment me like this?” Clinging to his sleeve, to the 
skirt of his coat, she tugged at it, shook it like a child. “I 
know you’re only pretending — of course I know — but it’s 
cruel — cruel! Look here, Phil; I’ll do anything, anything 
in the world for you, only you must help me. It would kill 
me. And C. H. — what about C. H.? You’re his friend; 
you must know that I’m better for him than any one else 
could be — I do understand him — ” 

“I can’t, Leila. Look here, I can’t — ” McCabe’s face 
was white, drawn with pain. It was agony for him to refuse 
his help ; but only within the last few days he had received 
the offer of an appointment which meant the public acknowl- 
edgment of his talents. There was no knowing to what it 
might lead; possibly to some appointment where he would 
have the chance of studying tropical diseases, which had al- 
ways interested him so immensely, in a country where do- 
mestic relationships were less difficult. If the slightest 
shadow of suspicion were to fall upon him at this juncture, 
there would be an end of everything. 

“No, no, Leila; I can do nothing. I’ve sworn I’ll never 
touch anything of the sort again. Good God, woman, have 
you no thought of me — of any one but yourself and Ploy- 
land? Why should he never suffer? — why should he go 
scot-free? — tell me that. And you, you yourself — ^you 
women are such fools, you deserve — No — no — no — no one 
deserves anything like this. My God I how awful this is ! 
Stop crying, Leila — for Heaven’s sake pull yourself to- 
gether I” 

“You helped Violet Filson. Why did you help Violet, 
and won’t help me?” The tears were streaming down 
Leila’s cheeks; she slipped to the floor, clinging to him: 


32 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


raised her face — twisted with grief, all the fine delicate lines 
of it blurred and terrible — to his. 

“Oh, Phil — ^Phil! By God, you must help me! You 
shall help me. What must I do — what can I do to make 
you — - ? ril give you anything ! — anything. Do you hear ?” 
“Be quiet, I say — stop it, oh, stop it I” 

*‘You must help me — you must — you must!” 

He put down both hands to raise her, and felt her heart 
beating wildly, like a bird’s; he had tested it once — at the 
instigation of that other lover who had been so much coarser 
and rougher than Hoyland, and yet far more concerned about 
her — realized its weakness. His own heart was torn with 
pity; she would kill herself if she went on like this; she 
had not the strength to bear such emotion. He knew that it 
was no facile, hysterical grief ; he realized her habitual self- 
control too well to reassure himself with any such delusion. 
It was the sort of agony which shakes body and mind ; dis- 
integrates, annihilates, if it is allowed to go on. 

“Hush, hush! — ^be quiet, Leila. I’ll do nothing to help 
you if you go on like that. Child — child — ” He took her 
face between his hands and gazed at her tenderly — with a 
sort of desperation, as though she held his fate in her hands : 
“Won’t you go through with it — for my sake, try and go 
through with it. You don’t know — it might be the greatest 
solace, the greatest joy of your life — ” 

“But C. H.— Phil, think of C. H. !’' 

Yes, that was it; there was nothing to appeal to in her; 
she was nothing, less than nothing, apart from Hoyland. 

“I’ll see what can be done. Sit up quietly — ^behave like 
a sane woman — ^}^ou poor child, you — and I’ll see — ” 

“That means you will help me! I knew you would — I 
knew that you’d never go back on me — I knew, I knew ! 
I’ll do anything you ask. Look, now !” 

Like a child, she sat herself upright upon the sofa ; gave 
one of her little preening touches to the lace round her 
breast, patted back her hair, called up the stiff ghost of a 
smile to her tear-stained face. 

“I don’t promise anything — I can’t promise anything — ” 
“Oh, but you have promised ; you have as good as prom- 
ised. Phil, you won’t — can’t go back on me now.” Once 
again she was torn with agony, her face distorted. 

“Well, if you make yourself ill, that will do no good. 
I’ll ring your bell — send Freda for something to make you 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


33 

sleep, give you a quiet night.” He drew a note-book and 
pen from his pocket, wrote a prescription, and handed it to 
the maid, as she entered the room. 

“You must take that to the chemist — ^but get your mistress 
to bed first, she’s been upsetting herself. Then give her that 
and a glass of hot milk on the top of it. You’ll look after 
her, won’t you?” 

“Of course — There, there! — wasn’t I right? — better to 
tell the Doctor.” The woman bent over her mistress, put 
an arm round her, drew her to her feet. “You poor lamb, 
you — you come along with your Freda; nothing shan’t hurt 
you so long as Freda’s here to mind you ; an’ you’ll feel as 
different as different after a good night’s rest.” 

“Of course she will — as different as different!” echoed 
McCabe ; watched the passage of the two women to the door, 
saw the maid turn and give him a look, make a motion with 
her chin as though to say : “A pretty to-do ! A, pretty to-do, 
ain’t it?” swung round in search of his hat, trod upon 
Chang, and broke into a low-voiced volley of curses. 


CHAPTER IV 

Next morning Hoyland arrived at Leila’s flat soon after 
twelve, expressed his intention of taking her out for an air- 
ing, and then to lunch — ^at the “Savoy” — the “Carlton” — 
wherever she wished. 

It was a bright day, bitterly cold, but he did not feel the 
cold, was in excellent health, as always; and — ^which was 
less certain — excellent spirits. He even cast a more or less 
good-natured gibe at Chang, who — forgotten for once — crept 
away under the sofa, dragging himself flattened out upon 
his stomach. 

Leila, beautifully dressed in dark-blue cloth trimmed with 
fur — preposterously dispersed round the hem of the skirt, 
about her wrists and down over her shoulders, while her 
neck and chest were bare, her ankles clad in the thinnest 
of silk stockings — was looking paler than usual, but very 
pretty ; her pallor, indeed, seemed to add to her refinement, 
gave her a certain precious air. She, also, appeared to be 
in very good spirits ; was enchanted at the idea of going out. 

“Make haste and get your things on ; Fve got some good 
news for you. I’ll tell you as we go along.” 


34 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Her heart sank at his words ; in a moment her mind leapt 
to what had happened ; but she kept her self-control — no one 
could have so much as connected her with that desperate, 
weeping woman who had clung to Philip McCabe’s arm the 
night before. She made the willful gesture of a spoilt child 
— tossed her head, put her hands behind her back, pouted. 

*‘No, now ! I refuse to go until you tell me — ^tell me now, 
now ! Now, at once, if it’s something nice.” 

“No, you infant, you!” He pulled her towards him by 
the lobe of one ear, kissed her. “Do as you’re told. Get 
your hat and things.” 

“No.” She sat down on the sofa, stuck her chin in the 
air. She was cold from head to foot, terribly afraid of 
fainting; but still she held to those airs of a pretty tyrant 
which, as she well knew, it amused Hoyland to see her as- 
sume — so long as she knew, and he knew, how very much 
the boot was, vulgarly speaking, upon the other foot. As a 
matter of fact, her very lightness at that moment buoyed her 
up ; she clung to it for dear life, but her legs were trembling. 
Walking in the street, she might not be able to control her- 
self ; even now she could not have stood upon her feet. 

Hoyland dropped to a seat beside her and, picking up a 
huge, downy cushion, pummeled her with it, laughing. 
“Little bully ! All the same, I won’t tell you.” 

“What if I know — have guessed it ?” Like Roland, at his 
dark Tower, she was glad of any end. “Eh-h? Clever!” 

“Well?” 

“Well? — well?” Her own voice sounded extraordinary 
to her as she mimicked him. “Well — ^you’ve got the money, 
somehow or x)ther, are going abroad — ” 

“Bright child ! It’s a mercy I’ve no secrets from you — 
they’d have burnt you for a witch in the Middle Ages. A 
good thing, too — we mere men aren’t up to contending with 
the likes of you. Yes, I’ve got the money. I couldn’t re- 
member what the law was on the subject of auction sales, 
but I looked it up last night. Then, to make certain, went 
and saw a lawyer chap I happen to know ; at least he used 
to be a lawyer ; got himself into a devil of a mess, struck 
off the rolls, kicked out of his profession — the sort of thing 
that’ll be happening to old McCabe some day, and so I tefl 
him— clever as they make ’em, though ; no twist or turn of 
the law too much for him. He agreed with me, it’s all 
serene. ’Pon my word, Leila, this English law ! It’s just 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


35 


made for people like us, my dear. If I can once get the 
money out of the auctioneer it’s he, poor devil, who’ll have 
to pay the piper, settle up with my mother, and no way out 
of it. Damned unfair, of course; she’ll skin him to the 
bone. But there you are : some one’s got to suffer, and any- 
how it won’t be us, brightest and best.” 

“You mean that, after all, you’ve got — ?” 

“The cash. Yes, that’s precisely what I do mean. For- 
tunately my parent takes an inordinate time to get herself 
dressed in the morning. I don’t often play the part of the 
early worm, but to-day I rose close upon dawn — nine-thirty 
to be precise — went straight off to the auctioneer, got the 
check out of him, and cashed it — close on eight hundred 
pounds — an’ that’s not all either. But I won’t be hard on 
him over the rest. We’ll have champagne for lunch, old 
girl, and then — Look here ; can you be ready tO' cross to- 
night? We’ll go straight off to Monte Carlo. Better give 
my little lot time to settle down, fizzle out — eh?” 

Leila moistened her stiff lips with her tongue, plucking at 
the fur round her wrists. “Let’s have lunch first, C. H. — I 
don’t know about to-night ; I’ve got no clothes or anything.’' 

“Schemer! Look here — I’m not sure, I won’t promise, 
but we might — it all depends upon how nice you make your- 
self — put in a couple of nights in Paris, give you time to 
rig yourself out. For the moment I’m overflowing with 
cash and the milk of human kindness, you’ll observe. Any- 
how, we’ll have lunch now; then you can come home and 
pack.” 

“But, C. H., dear, really I can’t get off to-night. Oh, it’s 
out of the question.! There’s the flat, and Freda and all.” 

“And all !” he mocked, still smiling, though his expression 
had hardened. “I wonder you don’t include that wretched 
cur o’ yours. Besides, you know that Freda can go to 
Clare ; she’ll be only too glad to have her.” 

“But, C. H., really — See here, old dear — ” She bent 
forward, laying one hand with its soft pink palm against 
his cheek — “let me have my own way for once. Wait a 
little. I have tons of engagements” — even now it gave her 
some sort of pleasure to pretend that she lived in a whirl, 
was not entirely dependent upon his favor — “there would 
be letters to write, all sort of things to see to.” 

“Look here, Leila” — he put down the cushion, turned 
towards her, sullen, contemptuous — “why can’t you speak 


36 THE LITTLE SOUL 

the truth for once? For some reason or other you don’t 
want to come.” 

“Oh, but I do, I do — really, C. H., I do. -Don’t look at 
me like that, as though you wanted to devour me. I won’t 
have it !” It was a pitiful pretense at childish defiance, and 
she realized its thinness when he laughed. “The only thing 
is, I don’t want to go just at this very moment. Surely 
I may be allowed some say in the matter.” 

“As much say as you like, my dear. The only thing is, 
you must understand that I am going to-night, whatever 
happens — take it or leave it. There’s never any knowing 
what you women are up to. I suppose you imagine that 
you’ll enhance your value by holding back — only, let me re- 
mind you, it’s a little late in the day.” 

“There are other men in the world — ^Billy Skelton says — ” 
“Oh, yes, there’s Billy Skelton — so there is !” He laughed 
again: he knew Billy Skelton, knew what Leila felt about 
him. Not for a moment did it enter into his head to imag- 
ine that her change of mind was owing to any rival — ^he 
knew himself, his own value, only too thoroughly. After 
all, — Oh, well, there were plenty of other women ; she might 
be a nuisance, was certain to be an expense — 

“Well, my dear, you know your own’mind best. The flat’s 
paid for up to the end of this month, and I’ll leave fifty 
pounds in the bank for you ; only, don’t squander it all on — ” 
“C. H. ! — Charles — Charles — look here — ” 

“No, my dear ; no changing your mind at the last moment. 
What was I going to say ?” He had buttoned his overcoat, 
picked up his hat, still smiling. “Oh, I know ! Don’t squan- 
der it all upon Billy Skelton an’ his kind ; it took some com- 
ing by. And now, brightest and best, I’m afraid that fifty 
will be the last you see of it.” 

“Charles !” She was on her feet, trembling from head to 
foot. She put out one hand and touched Hoyland’s sleeve ; 
desperate and yet tentative, reserved ; even if she had not 
realized the folly of such a thing, it would have been im- 
possible for her to cling to him as she had clung to McCabe. 
“Charles, listen — you must listen— you don’t understand — 
only give me a few days !” 

“No, my dear. Perhaps I don't want to; perhaps— 
Well, after all, is it worth it? You’ve made your choice, 
and now— as my time’s short”— he took the tips of her cold 
fingers in his, raised her hand to his lips, kissed it — ^‘'now 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


37 


I’ll say good-by.” He gave a little nod and a smile, while 
she stood silent ; her trembling had ceased, it was as though 
she were turned to stone. 

At the door he glanced round, nodded again. After all, 
he’d be much freer without Leila. A woman was like a fur 
coat, a luxury; one might need it, but it took up a lot of 
room, could very well be dispensed with. As McCabe’s 
pompous old father had been so fond of saying: “Every- 
thing’s for the best in this best of all worlds — ” 

“Good-by, and give my regards to that charmer — Billy.” 


CHAPTER V 

It was the end of February when Hoyland left London: 
it was well into May when he returned. He had spent a 
great deal of money in Monte Carlo; but then he had also 
made a good deal, for it seemed as though he were uniformly 
lucky in all he attempted. Even that stupidity of Leila 
Gavin’s — it was only by an effort that he could feel that 
Leila had ever really existed, save when he found himself 
using her as a standard of comparison — ^turned out well, 
for he had made friends with a young Viennese widow with 
plenty of money, beautiful and quite devoid of all scruples ; 
a triple combination which made her a pleasant companion. 
They had gone to Venice together, then pottered about 
the shores of the Mediterranean. They parted very good 
friends. Perhaps on the whole the widow had paid, in 
every way, more than Hoyland for the felicity of those few 
weeks ; but she kept her mouth shut over her losses ; and 
anyhow, there was this to it — she had enjoyed herself, for 
Hoyland could be an ideal companion when it so pleased 
him. 

Left to himself, he went to Florence, and put in a fort- 
night or so with a few friends who lived there; renewing 
his acquaintance with the town, the pictures, the statuary — 
steeping himself in the whole atmosphere which he loved. 
People raved about scenery, nature; but to his mind there 
was nothing to be compared with the work of man. Nature 
was crude, art was subtle; Nature was forever changing, 
decaying; but art lasted out the lives of innumerable men, 
survived through countless seasons, “forever fresh and still 
to be enjoyed.” 


88 THE LITTLE SOUL 

While in Florence he received a letter from his mother. 
Like a wise woman she had got what she could out of the 
unfortunate auctioneer who had sold her goods ; had made 
no attempt to waste breath or notepaper upon her son. 
She wrote now to suggest that if he were going to stay in 
Florence he might have one of his sisters with him for a 
time. 

“I^m tired of tagging two girls about the w^orld. I ought 
to go tO' St. Petersburg; there are business affairs I must 
see to” — Hoyland smiled at this — how well he knew those 
‘‘business affairs !” — “Pm going to send Maisie to school in 
Brussels until the summer holidays ; she’s getting altogether 
beyond herself. If you’d have Rose I find that I can pick 
up a good maid here, very cheap; and who can tell? — you 
might get Rose off upon some of your friends. Of course, 
a nice clergyman would be the thing; but I don’t suppose 
you know one, any more than I do. That’s the tiresome 
part of belonging to a religion with a celibate clergy, when 
you have daughters to provide for. Anyhow, if you’ll take 
Rose off my hands for a couple of months, I may be able 
to do something for you in Russia.” 

Rose herself wrote : “I think Prince Versilov must have 
said something to make Mamma anxious about her property, 
for it was after a long interview with him that she decided 
to go.” Was this malice or sheer innocence? He knew 
nothing of Rose, but she must be a fool as well as a saint if 
she did not know something of the world, after knocking 
about it in her mother’s company. 

‘T know that you won’t want me,” continued the letter, 
in its neat, rounded handwriting, “and I expect she’ll want 
me back again very soon; she never seems able to get a 
maid to suit her. But meanwhile, dear Charles, I do wish 
you would use your influence to make her let me go to Brus- 
sels with Maisie. It wouldn’t cost much ; I could live at the 
school and help teach English; but I do so want to go on 
with my music. Only, don’t tell her I asked you, or of 
course she’ll say ‘no’ ; just suggest it, as though it were your 
own idea.” 

The letter was marked “Very private” — ^that was so like 
Rose ! As though any one were likely to be in the least in- 
terested in her or her ideas. Anyhow, as it cost him noth- 
ing to do as she wished, and as he certainly did not intend 
to be saddled with her, Hoyland wrote to his mother sug- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 39 

gesting Brussels. After all, it was only a matter of a stamp 
and half-a-dozen lines. 

At the same time he wrote to a young attache whom he 
happened to know in St. Petersburg;, making inquiries about 
this so-called prince. Mrs. Hoyland's money and estates 
were all in her own hands; and though her shrewd good 
sense had, so far, kept the upper hand over her amours, she 
was at an age where many women are made fools of by 
some good-looking scoundrel or other. 

Treherne's letter on the subject was, however, reassuring. 
To Hoyland’s mind the world of men — apart from the labor- 
ing classes — was divided into those who made fools of 
women and those who were fooled by them. Prince Versi- 
lov, it seemed — and it was a legitimate title — ^belonged to 
the last category. Apart from this, in place of being 
younger than Mrs. Hoyland, he was a good fifteen years her 
senior ; so all seemed well, and with the cares of his family 
well off his shoulders Hoyland returned to London, hustled 
out the acquaintances to whom he had let his flat in the 
Temple, and settled down for the London season. 

One evening towards the middle of May he found himself 
in a mood of vague amusement, more tolerant than usual; 
for he had been to one of those so-called spiritualistic gather- 
ings, for which credulous fools would gladly pay five guineas 
in the hopes of some new thrill : a craving so insistent that 
they become like the daughter of the horse-leech with her 
“Give — ^give^’ — running from absurdity tO' obscenity; seiz- 
ing upon the most bestial forms of negroid superstition and 
medieval credulity. 

It was a debauch of this kind, including that pretense of 
so-called Black Magic, which had for some time been rife 
in Paris and Berlin — practiced in London by a greasy arch- 
hypocrite with his tongue in his cheek, and a group of 
women whose nakedness was inadequately veiled in the so- 
called mysteries of Iris — at which Hoyland had been present 
upon this particular evening. 

Needless to say he had no idea of wasting his money over 
such balderdash : was the guest of a fashionable and very 
pretty society woman who — refusing to live with her hus- 
band upon the ground that marriage and the procreation of 
children were both perfectly horrid — had re-christened her- 
self the Mistress of Heaven, muddling up her soul with her 
body in the way that such people have. 


40 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


There were few things which enraged McCabe more than 
this cultivated credulity. Nothing was too low for his pity 
so long as it was real; but such travesty of all humanity 
sickened him. Hoyland, on the contrary, found perpetual 
amusement in seeing people make fools of themselves, watch- 
ing their antics ; so like apes that to his mind they were dif- 
ferentiated merely by the fact that they had no tails, had 
learnt to refrain from scratching themselves in public ; while 
things which filled McCabe with bitter shame aroused in him 
no feeling beyond a contemptuous curiosity as to what 
lengths such people might not go. 

He was thinking of McCabe, whom he had not seen since 
his return, from England, on his way home that night, and 
was glad to find him waiting for him in his rooms. For he 
was so strong, so full of vitality, so unworn by anything in 
the way of nerves, that the thought of undressing, going to 
bed, was always repugnant to him, as a sort of lowering, 
giving up, of self ; and he was glad of any excuse for pro- 
longing the evening. 

A fire burnt in the grate, and McCabe, standing upon the 
hearthrug made a curt apology for it: “I put a match to 
your fire, I hope you don’t mind; it’s turned so infernally 
cold.” 

He was generally, despite himself, a trifle conciliatory in 
his manner towards the other man — for it is strange how 
often intellect abases itself before a good tailor, the non- 
chalant insolence of mediocrity. Not that Hoyland was me- 
diocre: he was very clever, very complete — so far as he 
went: in some ways McCabe thought him quite wonderful. 

But upon this particular night all tentativeness was gone 
from McCabe’s manner. Possibly he had got to that stage 
where he did not care a hang what Hoyland, what any one, 
thought of him. He looked very ill; he was perceptibly 
grayer ; his eyes were more bloodshot, his clothes shabbier 
and more than ever in need of a clothes-brush. There were 
deep peipendicular lines running downwards from either 
side of his nose; and even his mouth — ^which had for so long 
retained something of sweet austerity — was drawn a little 
sideways as though with bitter thought. 

For the first time, during all those years that Hoyland had 
known him, he saw that his fine hands shook, as, at his host’s 
invitation, he helped himself to a whisky and soda. 

His boots were thick with June dust. Hoyland, sinking 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


41 


back into the depths of the easiest chair, crossed one leg 
over his knee, ran his hand round his own silk-clad ankle 
with a feeling of urbane satisfaction. Poor old McCabe’s 
boots were deplorable ; it was plain that he was letting him- 
self go, drinking heavily. 

The tumbler rattled loudly against the syphon, and he 
gave an impatient shrug; there was nothing he hated more 
than clumsiness and noise. Well, if McCabe went on like 
this, there was an end to his work; anyhow, so far as dis- 
section or surgical research went. 

“Look here, Hoyland, an awful thing’s happened — ^it’s 
broken me up — I’m at the end of my tether— ^on’t know 
what the devil to do — ” 

He tossed off the contents of his glass, turned round to 
put it down on the mantelpiece, and remained standing with 
his back to the other man; his arms, leaning on the shelf, 
his great shoulders bent. 

The back of his clothes was even more deplorably shiny 
than the front ; his trousers frayed over worn heels. Hoy- 
land prided himself upon the keenness with which he noticed 
such trifles. 

“My God !” exclaimed McCabe passionately, “isn’t it too 
awful to think how utterly helpless one is to do anything for 
any one, without running — oh, the most infernal risks? 
And even then, likely enough, do more harm than good — 
make a mess of the whole thing? What in the world were 
we made for? — that’s what I want to know. Why in the 
world do we ever go on — on and, on — all dazed with our 
passions, our pity and pain ; working like moles in the dark ? 
If one only knew — oh, my God, if one only knew! — that 
there was another world better than this — anything, any- 
thing to hold on to ! But to let any human soul go out into 
that awful darkness — ” 

Hoyland gave a little laugh, settled himself deeper into 
his chair, and lit a cigarette. He knew that his friend was 
overcharged by some desperate distress; but other people’s 
troubles were a nuisance, and he still hoped to divert the 
stream to the sort of discussion which they both loved, en- 
tirely as they disagreed upon almost every subject. “Now,” 
he said, “let us — as Socrates might say — discourse upon the 
human soul. I’ve got a theory, McCabe, which I’ve been 
waiting to try upon you — it always tonics up one’s ideas to 
have them contradicted. Cebes — wasn’t it? — who had a 


42 THE LITTLE SOUL 

notion that the soul might have existed for innumerable 
ages before its imprisonment in the body ; that its very en- 
trance into the body of a man — what we call birth — is the 
beginning of death. Well, I’m going one better than that. 
The soul, such as it is, does not perish with man, sirnply be- 
cause he never possesses such a thing. For generations we 
have gone on flattering ourselves that, as the very highest 
form of life, we and we alone are entitled to immortality. 
But, oh, dear, no. During the process of ascent we have im- 
proved the body, refined upon all its functions, cultivated its 
emotions, its intellect at the expense of the soul. Plato him- 
self says that the soul is at its best when it is undisturbed by 
hearing, sight, pain, pleasure. Well, now, my dear fellow, 
I’ve got the idea that this precious immortality is the at- 
tribute of the lowest, and not the highest, form of life. The 
only true immortal that ever has been* ever will be, is a uni- 
cellular organism such as the Protozoa — a creature which 
ought, in all conscience, to suit Plato down to the ground, 
with precious few distractions of sight, hearing, tasting, etc. 
A creature which simply divides, becomes two instead of 
one — ^the antithesis of marriage, eh ? — can scarcely be said to 
die. With the very idea of death we associate something, at 
least, left for the undertaker. But the Protozoa is amaz- 
ingly secure : he even, as some learned Johnny or other says, 
‘endures desiccation with successful patience’ — a truly noble 
example to us thirst-ridden mortals — no need for the blue- 
ribbon among the immortal Protozoa. No, no, my dear fel- 
low ; in this so-called Ascent of Man we have sold our 
birthright of immortality just as certainly as we have sacri- 
ficed our tails. I have not yet made up my mind as to what 
organ of publicity I will offer my great idea ; it is no use hav- 
ing ideas in these days unless one writes about them — many 
people do not even wait for that much — ^the Daily Mail, or 
the Lancet, or one of those popular issues, I suppose.” 


CHAPTER VI 

In certain moods it amused Hoyland to evolve ironical and 
fantastic ideas. He had drunk just enough champagne to 
feel pleased with himself, with the silly world in general ; and 
if one could draw old McCabe into an argument it ’was 
sure to be full of interest. But on this particular evening it 


43 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

did not seem too easy to get him going. Still standing, 
ignoring his host’s gesture in the direction of a chair, he had 
again turned, was leaning with his elbow stuck out behind 
him upon the mantelshelf — where Hoyland trembled for his 
china — gazing down at him, glowering. 

“Well, it seems to me that, whoever ’s right — Cebes or my- 
self, or the parsons with their eternal muddle of mortality 
and immortality ; their pretense at a sexless heaven with still 
‘our brother in God’ and ‘sister in God’ — that death — ” 

“Look here, Hoyland,” broke in McCabe, in a rough, loud 
voice; then hesitated, moistened his lips. 

“Yes?” 

“I’ve — my God, Hoyland, I’ve killed a woman.” 

“Well, that’s the end of a great deal of worry for the wo- 
man, whoever she may be. Let’s hope it isn’t the beginning 
of a great deal of trouble for you, that’s all.” 

“A woman — a girl,” went on McCabe, “so fragile, so help^ 
less, so soft — like an unfledged bird — ^yes, that’s it; like an 
unfledged bird — the delicacy, the soft white skin, the little 
bones of her ! — and so damnably overridden by fate, environ- 
ment, necessity! Christ! when I think of it — look back — 
I wonder what in the name of all that’s holy I ought to have 
done — I can see nothing for it but what I did do. She would 
have killed herself — I knew that ; I was certain of that. As 
it was, she had every chance, every sort of chance — it was 
only when it was all over, well over, that her heart gave out. 
It was that which killed her — the anxiety, the strain. Be- 
fore God it was that which killed her. She would have died 
anyhow. She was preordained. There are v/omen like 
that ; no more stamina than butterflies — !” 

“That being so, why the deuce do you say you killed 
her ?” 

“Because, if it all comes out — as it’s going to, as it’s bound 
to do — that’s what will be said.” 

“But if there’s no truth in it — if you didn’t kill her — 
whoever she was? If you can prove — ” 

“But how can I prove what even I’m not altogether sure 
of? My God, if only I knew for certain, could be sure. 
There’s such an enormous amount to be taken into considera- 
tion; all the contributory causes — body, mind. Not that it 
makes any diflference. She’s dead ; that’s one thing certain. 
Well out of it, I suppose. . . . Oh, yes, well out of it — 
though no one gave her the choice. That’s where it pinches 


44s 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


so damnably. For what does it mean when a girl says that 
she would rather she were dead than such-and-such a thing 
should happen? Nothing; less than nothing. — Ah, well, 
she's dead now, and I don't suppose it matters a pin to 
any one, excepting to me — to me and my conscience ! It's 
between me and God. — Ah, you may say what you like, 
Hoyland, look how you like, but you won't sneer God down. 
Then there's what she's thinking, feeling about it all, now, 
wherever she is, to be taken into consideration; and what 
He's thinking, what He meant ; His reason — if He ever had 
one — for putting any human being so infernally ill-equipped 
into a world like this ; for daring — ^yes, daring, that's it — to 
so much as think of launching another life into the maelstrom 
through her, poor kid, with all her sweetness and silliness." 

“Were you in love with her?" 

“In love with her ? No ! I know too much, have seen too 
much, for love, as you count it." 

“Then, look here, McCabe, why in the world do you go 
mixing yourself up in such things? You’re ruining your 
career, doing no earthly good." 

“Well, that's the question. After all, how can you or any 
one say ? There may be something in that scapegoat business. 
The poor devil of a goat which never harmed any one, wild 
with the sins of the world. It's not much of a part to be 
cast for, but still. . . . Look here, Hoyland; if this God is 
like the old Jehovah, cruel, unreasoning, mad with jealousy; 
stopping people's ears, eyes, lest they see with their eyes, 
hear with their ears — was there ever anything more mon- 
strously unjust so much as conceived of? — then I claim as 
good a right to take life as He~such a God— has to give it. 
It 'ud come to no more than this, a v/ise gardener nipping 
oflf a bud that he knows will be too much for the tree. If 
God's like that, nothing matters — nothing! But if He's 
different — if He has a reason and I've missed it — if He sees 
so far that our tender mercy is the ultimate cruelty. His 
cruelty the everlasting mercy — well, what then ?" 

“What does it matter, anyhow? If there was a God — 
which, of course, there's not — the only way to make life pos- 
sible would be by counting Him out, like one does one's land- 
lord-just swaggering on as though one owned the whole 
damned house ! The Lord knows one has to pay enough for 
maintenance and repairs ! There ought to be some sort of 
way of striking a bargain, you know, McCabe, so that after so 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


45 


many years, so much time and thought spent upon the fabric, 
His claim lapsed, once and for all. But it’s all a part of the 
bother of this absentee landlord business. If I were you — ” 

“If you were me! If you were me! By heavens, that’s 
good !” Of a sudden McCabe broke into a wild laugh. “If 
you were me, you stucco- fronted man, you! — if you were 
me, w^hat the devil would you be doing now? — With a 
darned mangy coat, off and away with your galling pack o’ 
sins — on the rocks with the other goats.” 

Hoyland shrugged his shoulders, his lids drooped a little 
more deeply over his eyes as he looked up at the other man ; 
but that was the only sign of annoyance which he gave. 
“May I ask if this sudden exuberance is the result of your 
undiluted native wit, or my whisky ? I don’t wish to appear 
curious, but I’d like to know.” 

McCabe made no answer ; his short-lived mirth — if such it 
could be called — was evidently over. Once more he turned 
round, facing the fire, leant his elbows upon the mantelshelf, 
dropped his head in his hands, while Hoyland poured himself 
out another drink and lit a cigar. Plainly enough this was 
not yet the end, and in spite of himself he was interested. 
Following any step in McCabe’s career was always a little like 
watching a performance of the Sicilian Players at their best. 

There was a long silence, and then McCabe turned round 
again. It was evident that he had determined to take a firm 
hold of himself, for he sat down, stretched out his hands to 
the fire, spoke quietly, reasonably : 

“Look here, Hoyland, I don’t know why I let myself go as 
I (lid — if I said anything offensive, I apologize ; I suppose it 
was the thought of her away under the ground v/ith all the 
summer months before us — the sight of you — here — ” 

“Thank you,” remarked Hoyland dryly; “I don’t know 
where else I should be !” 

But McCabe took no notice of his words ; either he did not 
hear, or he was too set upon what he had to say. 

“Look here — a girl got into trouble, a girl I happened to 
know — ” 

“Did I know her?” asked the other man, with a sharp 
sidelong glance. 

“You know her? Good God, no!” 

“All right ; no need to be so vehement about it.” 

“She was desperate, absolutely desperate ; she hadn’t over- 
much money” — he hesitated, glancing round the room — “It’s 


46 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


odd to look at this, and remember the sort of place she died 
in. The little she had she didn’t dare to spend, had no idea 
where there was any more coming from — ” 

“What about the man? — as you yourself disclaim—” 
“The man would do nothing for her ; she knew that.” 
“And ’pon my word, I don’t blame him. Women should 
learn to take care of themselves. But continue.” 

“She persuaded me to help her, to take the risk. Hoy- 
land, you know the sort of risk such a thing must be to me; 
that I wouldn’t willingly — ” 

“Yes. Though why the devil — ?” 

“Well, she died ; that’s all.” McCabe drew his chair back 
from the blaze, took his handkerchief out of his pocket, and 
wiped his forehead. “Everything went on all right — it was 
perfect. She was so grateful to me — so piteously grate- 
ful! — And then — more than twenty-four hours later, she 
collapsed, suddenly collapsed from heart-failure.” 

“You could give a certificate, surely?” 

“I called in another man at the last — ^he gave it without 
a moment’s hesitation. I suppose it seemed all right to him 
at the time. I felt it awfully. God knows, I cared little 
enough just then what happened to me, who knew about it. 
I suppose I was damned careless. But now — look here, 
Hoyland, I’d get out of it, put an end to myself, but there 
are things I know — am finding out — just beginning to get at. 
I have a sort of feeling that it’s up to me to stick it out, so 
long as there’s any chance of being of use to anybody.” 

“You’re a fool, McCabe.” — !''t is strange how often selfish 
callousness has logic upon its sid'', for Hoyland’s next words 
were only too true. — “If you’d keep inside the law, make 
legitimate use of those brains of yours, you would do a great 
deal more good, to many more people, and get something in 
the way of a decent life for yourself into the bargain. The 
money those Harley Street men make !” 

“Some day, some day,” McCabe gave a wry smile. “But 
now — well, some one’s blabbed, aroused suspicion. I don’t 
know whether my name’s come into it or not — as yet ; but 
it’s sure to do. Anyhow, I’ve got to get out of the country ; 
for a while, at least, until I see how things turn out ; and I 
want” — McCabe paused, with a little gesture which was 
full of humiliation. For he, who would squander his last 
penny upon another — any one — however little known or 
worthless — was overcome with shame at the very idea of 


THE LITTLE SOUL 47 

asking for money from this man, supposedly one of his best 
friends. 

“Look here, McCabe,’’ broke in Hoyland, with a calm 
which was somehow so much more wounding than violence, 
“if you’re thinking of asking me to lend you anything, you 
might as well spare yourself. I’m pretty well broke myself ; 
owe money all over the place. Besides, as you know, I don’t 
approve of borrowing — ” 

“What do you call it when you take clothes from your 
tailor, and don’t pay for them — But perhaps you’re right.” 
McCabe gave a rough laugh. “That’s something worse than 
borrowing.” 

“My dear fellow, you’ll get nothing out of me by being 
offensive. I can’t lend you money, or give it you, either, for 
I’ve got none to give. And if I had, I wouldn’t — so that’s 
straight. You make a damned ass of yourself ; then you ex- 
pect other people to pay the piper. It’s like those philan- 
thropists who build a church, and then Whine over the debt 
on it. If every one would learn to look after himself — ” 

He broke oft, as McCabe rose with a violent movement 
from his chair. “I knew what you would say. Do you 
think I didn’t know it? You’re my oldest friend; besides, 
you — rwell, I gave you a sort of chance. I can get the 
money — don’t worry about that. All sorts of unmentionable 
people will be ready and willing to help me with it. But 
there’s one thing you’ve got to do ; one thing even you can’t 
refuse me. You’ve got no heart, but you’ve got brains. If 
the case does come on, and I’m in it, you’ll have to watch 
my interest — I can’t afford to pay any really first-class man. 
You can do that; that at least will cost you nothing more 
than a little of your valuable time. You must do that much 
for me, Hoyland — and by God you shall !” 

“I fail to see why you say that.” 

“Because — because — ^by heavens, it’s the very least you 
can do.” 

“Give me a reason.” 

“Reason! There’s reason enough in all conscience! If 
you want a reason — ” 

“Well, let me have it.” Hoyland, who had risen at the 
same time as the other man, stood with one hand in his 
trouser pocket, one foot on the fender, half-smiling, cool, 
detached; as immaculate as though he had just bathed, 
dressed for the evening, his fair hair smooth and shining. 


48 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


For a moment McCabe hung staring at him, his great head 
thrust forward, his face purple ; then he stammered out : 

“I can’t — I can’t! I promised. . . . But if you knew — 
my God, if only you knew I” — stared round, as though half- 
blinded, for his hat, snatched it up and plunged from the room. 

Left alone, Hoyland threw another log on to the fire, sat 
down and thrust out his feet to the blaze. After all, it was 
pleasant enough ; for it turned chilly so late at night, even 
towards the height of the so-called summer. 

It was a good thing that he did not have to depend upon 
his profession. Sometimes it amused him to take up a case, 
^ but, anyhow, in a thing like this there was neither money nor 
fame. Supposing it did come to anything, and old McCabe 
was in it, there might be unpleasant revelations. No ; it was 
best, far and away best, to keep clear of the whole affair. If 
the other man felt that he had failed in his friendship, it 
could not be helped ; after all, one’s first duty was towards 
oneself. If every one looked at life in that way, how little 
trouble there would be. 


CHAPTER VII 

Close upon a month later Charles Hoyland was calling upon 
his mother in a flat which she had taken in Savoy Court, The 
Montpellier Square incident had never so much as been men- 
tioned between them, but he was not such a fool as to imagine 
it was closed. When his mother was silent upon any point 
it was there that she was most dangerous ; and though, by 
some chance or other, he had heard of the making of a new 
will, that was all. He knew nothing of what was in it ; she 
was a little too smiling, a little too urbane, and that was all. 

Meanwhile he had a shrewd suspicion that she was re- 
lieved to be quit of the responsibility of a house. It was 
plain that she was anxious to have her entire mind free for 
larger affairs; though her interest in dress, her incessant 
care for her health and personal appearance never, for one 
moment, wavered. Like her son, she was one of those peo- 
ple one might well imagine as being rescued from a desert 
island, picked out of the sea, disinterred from an earthquake, 
with not so much as a hair out of place. 

There were a good many people present upon that par- 
ticular afternoon; and by no means all English. Hoyland 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


49 


bowed to a little old gentleman whom he knew as a Serbian 
ex-minister, while a young man with rather prominent, bright 
onyx eyes, a pale face and shining black hair and mustache, 
glanced up at him for a moment as Mrs. Hoyland uttered his 
name, nodded, and plunged back into conversation with his 
hostess. There were some French people, friends of his 
own ; a stupid husband, a fat daughter of fifteen, and a gay, 
smart wife to whom he devoted himself. A young English 
novelist, who was balancing himself — like those acrobats 
whom one may see climbing a ladder which rests against 
nothing — upon the rather precarious fame that had come to 
him with one peculiarly abusive book, was trying to make 
conversation with Rose, who presided at the tea-table. For 
though Maisie was still in Brussels, the elder daughter's 
short flight was over, and she was once more *‘in waiting." 

In addition to these there were one or two other young 
men, inconspicuous save for their neatness ; and a very up- 
right, middle-aged woman, who looked as though she had 
been dropped there — she didn’t know how or why — whom 
Hoyland put down as one of his mother’s hotel friends; a 
somebody worth considering, it was evident, for every now 
and then Mrs. Hoyland made a palpable effort to snatch her- 
self away from her other friends, to draw her into the con- 
versation, with an ardor that did its best to make up for lost 
time. But the upright lady, with her very fine old rings, was 
not the sort of person to be easily amalgamated, drawn into 
anything; and at last the hostess beckoned to her son and 
introduced him. “Lady Felridge" — Hoyland knew the title 
— an earldom, stiff with age — then added: “I’m sure that 
you’ll find much to agree about. My son is so ver-r-ri, 
ver-r-ri conservative,’’ and plunged back into the Near 
East. 

Presently an Englishman with an Italian wife joined the 
party, diffused themselves for a while round the tea-table, 
then drifting towards Mrs. Hoy land’s special group, were 
drawn into it. 

Lady Felridge raised her glass and gazed at them ; she had 
the mild, long, obstinate face of an old hunter which knows 
the fences in its own particular lie of country. “Foreigners," 
she remarked, as some visitor to the Zoo might remark, 
“Kangaroos !’’ “Well, I can’t say I ever take to them mjr- 
self. I suppose it’s bigoted; some people might call it 
bigoted, but my dear father was just the same." 


50 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


‘They're not like us, of course," said Hoyland, with One 
of his blandest and most enigmatical smiles. ^ 

“No; you’re right there." Lady Felridge glanced at him 
with a sudden accession of interest. “How right ! They’re 
not like us, and never will be ; that’s the root of the whole 
trouble. Not that they can help it, poor things." 

“A misfortune of birth — ■" 

“Yes, yes" — for a moment she was doubtful, as if half 
suspecting, and yet not crediting, mockery. — “Though, of 
course, there are quite nice men among them — quite nice; 
and likely enough, women, too. Even my father used to say 
that. We had one really nice Swiss cook — almost like an 
Englishman. He never would have a Frenchman in the 
house — the French are so very immoral. It’s dreadful to 
think — " As she raised her head, impressing her point with 
a nod, the voices of the little group at the further side of the 
room broke upon their ears ; Mrs. Hoyland and her special 
friends all speaking French, and in no very subdued 
fashion. 

With a gallant effort Lady Felridge gathered herself to- 
gether as she rose, drew on her gloves — ^there is a curious 
line of demarcation between the women who take off their 
gloves to eat their toast and cakes, and those who do not; 
while the latter are generally the ones who can least afford 
such careless extravagance — “Of course, when I say French, 
I mean the real French — the people who live in Paris. The 
language, now — of course the books are too terrible, but really 
the language itself has nothing against it; rather pretty, I 
think, if only people wouldn’t talk quite so loudly, and so 
very quickly. As to public morals — well, it’s certain that with 
the present Government we can’t afford to be censorious." 
She spoke with sudden decision, with swelling port, as 
though here, at least, she was upon sure ground. For though 
public immorality was very dreadful, there was no fear of 
any actual impropriety creeping into any discussion of it. “I 
know, my dear father, even in his days, used to say that 
England was not in the very least what it used to be." 

“Going to the dogs, eh ?’’ 

“Dear me! Isn’t that too curious? Those were, as a 
matter of fact, his very words. ‘My dear’ — I was young 
then, you know — ‘My dear, mark my words for it, England’s 
going to the dogs.’ But now — really I think I must be get- 
ting on." She hesitated, with a glance at the compact little 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


51 


group in the corner, a trifle shy, very stiff : “Your mother 
is so surrounded by her friends — ” 

It was at this moment that Rose, so well-trained, so 
watchful, came to the rescue ; perhaps rather glad to escape 
from young Mr. Fielden — even now only at the fourth chap- 
ter, and somewhere near the fifth year, of his life. For he 
practiced his memory, endeavored to see how far back he 
could really remember, in preparation for his next book, 
with the people upon whom it was scarcely worth while to 
waste his theories of moral philosophy. 

Refusing to be buttonholed by either of the other young 
men — who would have liked to be seen about town with 
him — Hoyland joined his mother’s group, set in a blue haze 
of cigarette-smoke. 

The Italian lady sat silent; but the quick glances of her 
bright eyes from one speaker to another were even more 
stimulating than speech. She did not intrude her own opin- 
ions, she drew out the opinions of others. And though — in 
addition to French, German and Italian — she could speak 
Turkish and at least two of the Balkan languages, showed 
that keenness, that knowledge of foreign affairs which is 
only found among the very best of her race — and even then, 
for the most part among those brought up in diplomatic cir- 
cles — she spoke but little. The young Russian attache was 
in love with her; so, indeed, were a great number of men, 
for there was something like genius in her manner of listen- 
ing to all they said. But this did not affect her ; was their 
affair entirely ; for both heart and intellect were entirely sat- 
isfied by her husband and the life he gave her. 

It was her husband who was speaking when Hoyland 
joined the group. He had just relinquished a consulate post 
in Constantinople, and was on leave before taking up a fresh 
appointment in Monastir. He and his wife had counted 
upon several weeks in England; but now, after only three 
days, there was disquieting news, and they were to leave on 
the morrow. There was as yet no question of her not ac- 
companying him, and the glance which she gave the young 
Russian attache when he protested that it was really scarcely 
safe was eloquent with scorn. 

“It seems to me that, having exhausted all the thrills of 
civilization, we’re trying to imagine ourselves back in the 
Middle Ages ; like children playing at brigands, eh ?” smiled 
Hoyland, as he offered her his cigarette-case. “Reviving a 


52 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


bogey of real physical danger, something that will jump out 
upon us. Don’t you let yourself be put off doing anything 
you really want to do by alarmists like Monsieur Andreyevna, 
Mrs. Clauston. These diplomatic people have to do some- 
thing to justify their existence, you know; and it makes 
them seem so clever if they can once get people to believe that 
everything’s in a very serious state, and then say, ‘Only look 
how well we’ve arranged it all. How brig lit we are !’ ” 

“But, indeed, it is serious, Mr. Hoyland,” protested Mrs. 
Clauston, looking a little puzzled ; for she was not accus- 
tomed to men who said clever things for the mere sake of 
seeming clever. “Serious and dangerous. Not the sort of 
danger which means fear, but preparation; the danger of 
not fearing enough.” 

“But still danger,” put in the young Russian excitedly. 
‘‘And I declare — ^you must forgive me, Mrs. Clauston — most 
emphatically I declare that your husband has no right to 
allow you to go. I ought not to say anything — ^there is 
every sort of need to prevent a panic; but I do say — here 
where we are all friends I say it — it isn’t safe for Mrs. 
Clauston, or for any other woman — certainly not safe.” 

“Still ‘the bright eyes of danger’ beckon, eh, Mrs. Claus- 
ton?” smiled Hoyland. She was so pretty, so very much 
of a cultivated woman of the world, that he' could not imag- 
ine her doing anything save for the purpose of amusement, 
distraction. 

“Will you think, just for a moment think, what a Euro- 
pean war would mean?” went on Andreyevna, with a pal- 
pable effort to steady himself. “All the people in Central 
Europe — so crowded together — ^bursting out as the sea may 
burst its dams; pouring into Russia, terrorizing, not only 
terrorizing, but perverting our scattered peoples, until no 
man knows who is a friend and who is an enemy. . . . My 
God, there indeed will be a case of having sowed the wind 
and reaping the whirlwind I To refuse any right of individ- 
uality to a whole nation, any education, judgment, and then 
to look for patriotism, balance, restraint. . . . But it is not 
only of Russia that one must think. I think of it first be- 
cause it is mine — mine. But there’s Poland, that Niobe 
amid nations ; and all the Balkan States. A breath of war 
and one would be at its neighbor’s throat. There’d be no 
religion, no forces of law and order, capable of controlling 
people in such a war, with all its attendant horrors of disease 


THE LITTLE SOUL 63 

and famine. The only orderly peoples would be the well- 
fed. Talk of God! — God’s forgotten when He fails to send 
bread at the moment it’s expected, no matter whose fault it 
may be. You’ll see the brute let loose, uppermost in every 
man, upon every side, as it must be in war — I know, for al- 
ways with us Russians it is but just chained, never tamed. 
It’s not only battle and sudden death that you have to look 
for — that’s clean enough — but every sort of meanness and 
treachery — murder, rapine, the death of the soul. War, 
war I — my God I I wonder if you, any of you, ever think for 
a moment what it must mean, in these days. No single coun- 
try safe, unless it be England, with her navy, her seas 1” 

He hesitated, pale and a little breathless; took out his 
handkerchief and brushed it across his forehead — forcing 
his glance to slide past Hoyland’s mocking face with that 
sort of embarrassment that a man of another nation shows 
when he has given way to any display of feeling before an 
Englishman ; then went on with a nervous little laugh : 
“No, no; you stick to England, Mrs. Clauston; hug her 
tight, stay where you are. As to your own country, your 
poor country and Germany — Good heavens I to think that 
one ever spoke of any save a misalliance there — what will 
she do? The lion and the lamb — the wolf, rather. She’ll 
be in it, though — all the nations will be in it. To think 
of war and Europe now — Well, it won’t even stop at 
Europe — one must think of something so gigantic that there 
is nothing left to measure it by: of death, and famine and 
pestilence, such as has never before been so much as dreamt 
of. For the huger, the more intricate the machinery, the 
sooner does it get out of order. And to take a woman 
out of England now — now! Above all, to the Balkans — 
the very eye of the vortex — it would be madness, madness I 
That’s what I say !” 

Clauston — a fair, squarely-built man, with a red, good- 
tempered face — glanced at him sideways and grinned. 
“Take! I’ll leave it to you to stop her if you c: :i, Andre- 
yevna,” he said; and then added, more gravely: “As a 
matter of fact, I quite agree with you; she’s better out of 
it, just now, anyhow, until things have settled down a bit. 
But, there ! — a willful woman, you know — ” 

“And whose way should you have excepting your own, 
eh, Mrs. Clauston?” put in Hoyland. “Well, if you have 
a taste for melodrama, the venture may prove interesting 


64i THE LITTLE SOUL 

enough. But that the trouble should spread in the way 
Monsieur Andreyevna fears — 

“It fS not fear !” broke in the other man, hotly. 

“No, no, of course not, in that way — in any personal 
way — say, rather, suspects — I simply refuse to believe it. 
Anyhow, where’s the use of letting oneself be put out of 
one’s way by other people’s quarrels — more particularly 
when you don’t know how far they are quarrels and how 
far cleverly-arranged spectacular gestures. With all due 
respect to you. Monsieur” — he turned to the Serbian ex- 
minister — “your Balkan people seem much like those sort 
of wives who are never happy without a grievance ; while 
just now Austria-Hungary happens to fancy the part of the 
blundering, dictatorial husband.” 

The little old man with the tired, and yet so eternally 
bright, eyes, glanced up at his hostess’s son with a tolerant 
smile. It was never any use wasting feeling upon people 
like this — above all, the passion of pity, love, patriotism, 
that kept his heart as young as his eyes. 

“Because ‘wolf I’ has become a cry, it does not mean that 
there are no more wolves left in the world, young sir.” 

“Pooh !” broke in Mrs. Hoyland, “don’t you trouble your- 
self about him. Monsieur. He is well-educated, but he has 
< — a-h, what is it you call it ? — tangoed his brains out of his 
toes — maps his world in boudoirs instead of boundaries.” 

There was a little laugh at this. Hoyland himself was 
amused: it was plain that his mother was more irritated, 
more on edge, than he had thought. 

Later on, as those events which led up to that decisive 
Fourth of August, Nineteen-fourteen, slid into place like 
the fragments of a picture-puzzle, Hoyland remembered the 
date of that particular afternoon — the Twenty-third of July : 
the day following that upon which the German Secretary of 
State had informed Sir Harry Rumbold that he refused to 
interfere between Serbia and Austria-Hungary, which he 
considered had shown great self-restraint in its attitude to- 
wards the smaller country. 

The whole question left him^ untouched, for he had not 
sufficient imagination to precipitate his mind forward into 
what might happen if Serbia — that straw of destiny — were 
to refuse the offer which was never intended for acceptance. 

It was all very well for his mother to be interested in such 
things, or to simulate interest for the sake of drawing to 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


55 


her side the sort of people she really liked. But his mother 
— despite nearly thirty years spent almost completely out 
of Russia — was still a Russian to the backbone: while he 
himself was an Englishman. To his mind, Monsieur Poin- 
care’s visit to St. Petersburg, the conversations which fol- 
lowed, had been the result of an effort to draw England, as 
well as France, into a quarrel which had nothing whatever 
to do with them. He was a clever enough man, but he 
over-rated his power to stand aside, remain unaffected; 
over-rated the power of the rest of the world — apart from 
Austria-Hungary and that wretched little Serbia — to go on 
disregarding a thing until it ceased to exist : in fact, he was 
one of those most hopeless of all men, where any larger 
interest was concerned, clever without vision. 

Anyhow, the whole discussion was becoming tiresome; 
and as Mrs. Clauston — who could be so charming — seemed 
absorbed between European politics and her ugly husband, 
Hoyland turned towards the pretty Frenchwoman, who 
was sitting alone, looking a trifle bewildered, while her hus- 
band and fat young daughter talked to Rose at the tea- 
table. 

The small room, with too many people in it, was very 
close; the atmosphere heavy with smoke and the scent of 
flowers — tall vases of white lilies, bowls of sweet-peas ; and 
after every one had gone, Hoyland, who had promised to 
stay to dinner, accompany his mother and sister to the opera 
— reluctant, because he hated family-parties, acquiescent, be- 
cause it looks well to be on good terms with one’s own 
people — flung the windows wider, and moved into the little 
balcony. 

“Charles” — it was Mrs. Hoyland, glancing through the 
evening paper before going up to dress, who spoke, care- 
lessly enough, from the depths of an easy-chair just inside 
the drawing-room — “did you see this about your friend. Dr. 
McCabe?” 

“No. What is it?” 

“He’s wanted in connection with the death of a girl — an 
actress — at least, it seems that she had been an actress — 
named — ” 

Hoyland shut his teeth, leant further over the rail of 
the little balcony, staring down into the courtyard below 
him. It is extraordinary what hours can seem to elapse 
between two words: his whole mind was bent upon the 


56 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


effort to remember whether he had or had not mentioned 
Leila’s name that day, in Montpellier Square. He was al- 
most certain that he had not — there were people, however 
charming, whom one does not introduce to one’s relations 
— and, after all, how could he be certain that it was Leila? 
Even upon that night when McCabe came to his rooms, 
though he had felt certain, he could not have been certain ; 
it was a thing into which he did not care to pry too closely, 
even in his own mind. Where was the use of wasting one’s 
energy in thinking of things which were, anyhow, over and 
done with? 

“ — Gavin,” went on Mrs. Hoyland, and she had not really 
paused — “Leila Gavin.” 

“Well, and what in the world has old McCabe got to do 
with it?” 

“Some people seem to be always mixing themselves up in 
scandals — and a doctor, too, who ought to be so careful. 
It appears that the girl died of heart-failure; there was 
another doctor’s certificate to that effect. She was buried 
and all; then something came out — a servant, I suppose — 
and they got an order from the Home Secretary to dig her 
up again. How disgusting! As if it matters, when a per- 
son’s once dead! Anyhow, they seem to think that there’s 
been some sort of mal — mal — What do you call it ? I’ve 
lost my place — it’s all so long and involved — ” 

“Malpractice ?” 

“Yes ; that’s it. I suppose that it means 'that she was 
going to have a baby, and that Dr. McCabe tried to inter- 
fere — do something — how stupid of him, in his position ! — 
those sort of things can always be arranged with a little 
tact, a check. Perhaps he couldn’t afford it; though this 
will cost far more in the end,” she added shrewdly. “If 
he got the girl into trouble — ” 

“I don’t suppose that part of it had anything to do with 
him—” 

“My dear Charles, why in the world should he bother 
himself if it hadn’t? Well, I must say, I’m surprised. I 
always thought that he was a very odd person; but with 
people of that sort, untidy — oh, bourgeois, no style or any- 
thing — one does at least look for respectability ; it seems the 
very least. Like plain people, you know. I always expect 
plain people to be good — not so much men ; some plain men 
are devils ; but women.” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


57 


repeat I don’t in the least suppose that McCabe had 
anything to do with the affair ; in the way you imagine, any- 
how.” Hoyland had turned round, and was leaning with 
his back to the rail. His mother, who was rather short- 
sighted, held the paper in front of her face, so that he could 
not see it. 

“I expect the girl badgered him out of his life, until he 
consented to help her. I will say this much for old Mc- 
Cabe” — for the moment it seemed as though he were pricked 
by something that was not conscience, more likely a long- 
dormant sense of fairness — for it was pretty evident that 
his mother suspected nothing — to the defense of his friend 
— “he’s always getting himself mixed up in other people’s 
troubles. We — ^you and I, my dear mother, belong to those 
wise people who take care to get hold of the ha’pence ; while 
McCabe simply runs forward to meet the kicks. I’m pretty 
well sure that he is perfectly innocent of what, after all, 
no one condemns very seriously; has just let himself into 
this far more serious, fatal trouble, for the sake of helping 
some . . “Silly little fool,” he was going to say, but 
caught himself up as a momentary feeling of shame, and 
even more of chill came over him, as though an ice-cold 
hand were laid upon his sleeve. 

The sensation was so distinct, that he glanced down at his 
right arm, bent a little back' as his hand clasped the rail 
behind him : Leila used to lay her hand upon his sleeve like 
that when she was a little nervous, a little horrified by his 
lack of humanity. . . . 

“Oh, C. H. !” 

Hoyland gave a start, and the sweat pricked out upon his 
forehead. It was over in a moment, for no one could have 
spoken, unless it were his mother; and no one ever called 
him C. H., excepting Leila, who was always a trifle shy with 
his Christian name. 

He was an ass to be standing on that balcony : heights had 
always given him an odd, sickish feeling. He moved to the 
window and with a sort of defiance picked up his sentence; 
said what something or other had seemed to wish that he 
might — for his own credit — leave unsaid : “Some silly little 
fool of a girl who had got herself into trouble.” 

“But, really, Charles, you must see, it doesn’t matter 
what he did, or what he didn’t do. Why, even if she really 
did die of heart-failure ... it comes to just the same thing. 


58 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Doctors and clergymen simply can’t afford to get themselves 
talked about. It’s just the other way with actors, now. 
Really, it’s too stupid — and provoking ! I’d always thought 
that if only Dr. McCabe would settle down, specialize in 
something or other, get a really g:ood practice together, he 
might have done so well — he was just the sort of man — not 
too particular about appearance, and that sort of thing — for. 
. . . Who’s that?” she broke off sharply, as a light chair 
crashed to the floor in the next room; then, as her elder 
daughter appeared in the aperture, as though in answer to 
her unspoken name, she began again, complainingly : “Rose ! 
why in the world will you persist in creeping about like 
that? Haven’t I told you again and again? Besides, why 
aren’t you dressing ?” 

“I was waiting until you came up, to do your hair first.” 
The girl’s face was flushed; she gave a quick, embarrassed 
and yet half-defiant glance from her brother, who was at the 
open window lighting a cigarette, to her mother. “She 
knows,” thought Hoyland, and remembered how, one far- 
away holiday — when he was still ?t Oxford, and Rose a girl 
of between fourteen and fifteen — they had all teased her 
over her gauche devotion to McCabe. 

Later on that evening, finding himself alone with her 
between the acts of the play, he tried to draw her. But 
though she was easily taken unawares, she was completely 
secretive once her suspicions were aroused; and, realizing 
the uselessness of any further effort, Hoyland gave it up, 
and began to question her as to the contents of her mother’s 
fresh will, the progression of the affair with Versilov. Re- 
garding the will, she knew as little as himself, though she 
scared him by one remark : “I think there’s pretty little to 
be left to any one.” In respect to the other matter, she 
was at least sure of one thing. 

“She’s not given it up ; she’s always thinking of it, has it 
set straight in front of her. That’s why she took this ex- 
pensive flat. Her people are all so childish — they go by 
appearances. She always says no one ever gets anything 
out of a man by seeming to be badly off. Once I knew she 
was going to borrow money from some one, and suggested 
that if she went in her oldest clothes — she has nothing 
shabby, her things never get shabby like mine — he’d see more 
how much she needed it. And. she said that if she went 
looking very smart, he’d realize how much it must take to 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


59 


keep her nice. As to Prince Versilov — ^you know what she 
is when she makes up her mind to anything : m.oney simply 
doesn't count. And she’s made up her mind this time; is 
spending all she has on the chance of it. She’s even given 
up cards, and, well, that shows, for she could never live with- 
out some sort of a gamble.” 

“Marriage ?” 

“I think so — oh, I’m sure. And I must say, I would be 
glad if she’d only settle down. I think, you know, Charles, 
that even she is getting tired of being on the go, afraid of 
growing old and having no proper place in the world. I’m 
sure it’s that, for nowadays she can’t bear any one so much 
as to mention the question of age.” Rose was almost 
garrulous with the rare joy of finding some one who really 
listened, was interested in what she said : more particularly 
as that audience was her usually aloof and scornful 
brother. 

“She nearly killed a dressmaker who remarked something 
about a dress being ^suitable.’ Then, another time, she 
didn’t like a hat — was in a rage with the milliner, and said, 
‘Why, it makes me look fifty!’ She was looking in the 
glass, and I saw her draw herself together suddenly, as one 
does with a pain, and grow quite white; and Madame 
Camille’s face over her shoulder, with a little, sneering smile 
upon it — for, of course, she must be fifty, if not more. She 
forgets, really forgets — then remembers all of a sudden, 
and, of course, it’s dreadful for her. I believe that’s what’s 
at the bottom of her thinking of marrying again; and I 
think she’d like a Russian, because she would not so much 
mind growing old in front of a man of her own race. Of 
course, I can’t bear Russians, but . . .” 

“Well, when it comes to that, you’re half a Russian 
yourself.” 

“Oh, but I’m not — not really — not in the least! That’s 
why she despises me so; that, and because I’m not pretty. 
But I notice far more than she thinks,” added Rose, with 
the rather pathetic vanity of a plain, slow person, who yet 
finds something upon which to pride herself. “Now, if 
there’s a war, of course, he won’t come to England. Any- 
how, even if Russia took no part, he wouldn’t come. He’d 
be frightened of being so far away; he has a great idea of 
his own importance — I think that’s why Mamma likes him — 
it makes her feel grand, always talking of ‘my Czar,’ ‘my 


60 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

Sovereign.’ ^ Then, of course, all her own money’s in Russia. 
It would be very uncomfortable if anything happened to 
that.” 

‘Tt would be,” answered Hoyland grimly, ‘‘as you express 
it, Rose, with your usual admirable choice words, ‘un- 
comfortable’ — damnably uncomfortable.” 

He had another sneer at poor Rose’s expression, as he 
walked home to his rooms that night: “uncomfortable!” 
When he thought how he had plunged upon the prospect of 
his mother’s fortune, of the creditors which any near pros- 
pect of a debacle in Russia would bring about his ears! 
“Uncomfortable!” One might as well talk to a man with 
a furious swarm of bees about his head of discomfort — in- 
convenience. 

CHAPTER VHI 

In the end all that stir of half-hysterical surmise over what 
promised to be a sensational case, beaten up with the first 
evening paper, like a wind at twilight ; all the inquiries and 
conjectures which had threatened to cast little Leila Gavin 
for a part of greater publicity in death than any she had ever 
achieved in life, came to nothing, and what remained of her 
was allowed to rest in peace. 

After all, the evidence of any incorrect treatment rested 
almost entirely upon the tearful assertions of a maid, who 
corrected one moment what she had said the last, joined to 
some spiteful word dropped by the jilted sweetheart of the 
local chemist’s assistant, a lad of twenty-two. In con- 
tradiction to this, the doctor who gave the death certificate 
was very sure of himself — he was young, had just spent all 
his money upon a new practice, and could not afford, having 
once allowed the matter to pass, to be anything else ; while 
the landlady was ready for any sort of lie which would pre- 
vent her house being mixed up in “talk or any such disagree- 
ableness.” 

Still, McCabe — of whom people were now remembering 
everything good which they had ever heard, particularly in 
connection with his work upon anti-toxins — was wanted. 
But not in connection with Leila Gavin’s death; if only the 
authorities had known where to put their hand upon him, 
they would have very quickly reassured him upon that point! 
For there were certain things which McCabe knew more 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


61 


certainly than any man alive, and a time had come when 
even doctors could, almost as much as actors, afford to dis- 
regard scandal ; for they were wanted, even the least of them 
— terribly wanted. For years and years science had been at 
work with every sort of contrivance for maiming men out 
of all likeness to humanity — and now it was calling upon its 
members to at least run equal with other contrivances for 
patching them up again. Children who pull their toys to 
pieces for the fun of trying to put them together again — all 
odd and crooked, with the machinery not working at all as 
it used to do — scratched, battered, broken, with, often 
enough, several of the most important pieces missing — are 
whipped, or ought to be whipped. But the human race 
cannot, in its entirety, be turned up and smacked — and it 
is a pity that it cannot : nor can it be rendered less fractious 
and unreasonable by one all-powerful dose of Gregory 
powder — unless war, with its appalling colic, is the purge 
which God Himself happens to have chosen. 

And thus, one set of experts being engrossed in the device 
of implements by which poor humanity may be torn out 
of all shape and semblance to itself ; another set, of that sort 
to which Philip McCabe belonged, were needed to put it 
together again as best they might. Little wonder, therefore 
— as it is an ill wind which blows nobody any good — that the 
world, in the throes of that tremendous catastrophe to which 
Andreyevna had lent that sense of prophecy not uncommon 
with an ultra-sensitive nature, was in far too busy and im- 
portant a state of mind to busy itself with one ex-chorus 
girl, and McCabe would have been more than useful. But 
he was not to be found. Hoyland had no idea where he 
was, and troubled less than any one. 

The war was a nuisance : a menace to that sort of civil- 
ization which means more than life itself to a man of his 
caliber. But still, as he maintained, and with some reason, 
that was no reason for any one to go about looking as 
though the whole fate of the world depended upon him or 
her alone. The very young men in uniform, the voluntary 
nurses, plastered over with red crosses, the drivers of motor- 
cars and cycles : every little grocer swelling to the size^ of a 
Lord Mayor : even the meager grub who cut his hair in an 
upper room in Sackville Street — cheeky when he swore at 
him : — 

“You mustn’t forget that there is a war on, sir.” A 


62 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


preposterous little man, like a globe-fish, who sported the 
badge of a special constable in his buttonhole ! 

It was all like a draught down one’s back; one could 
never get away from it. He hated the noise, the pushing in 
the streets; the drunkenness of those first few months; 
hated that sort of rudeness which came later on, as the 
difficulties of life increased: the ugliness of everything; the 
poorly-lighted streets; the sense of chill and depression. 
The whole of life seemed to have taken upon itself a sort 
of five-o’clock-in-the-morning, after-a-dance aspect. All 
feeling he characterized as hysteria ; patriotism as Jingoism. 
He realized nothing whatever of the infinite amount of silent 
self-sacrifice which went on, of the force which was really 
“England,” and which, to tell the truth, very few people 
ever did realize, even when it was working within them — 
perhaps these least of all. But the difference between such 
men and women and Charles Hoyland was that they found 
something to which to put their hands, kept on doing it, 
however blindly or inefficiently; and thus, in spite of the 
most appalling mistakes and misunderstandings, the country 
held together, and things did get done, somehow or other. 

But Hoyland did nothing. He did not even, as so many 
agitators and pacifists, act as an irritant : he did not approve 
or disapprove ; all he wished was not to be bored or made 
uncomfortable. 

The daily papers were at this time his one unfailing 
source of amusement, with their petty vaunting of what 
did not in the least matter; their incessant fault-finding, 
which never by any chance suggested any workable alternate 
scheme. And, indeed, they were more like a mad dream 
than anything else — showing all the irrational inconsequence, 
the complete lack of perspective, common to dreams — with 
their ridiculous illustrations of ridiculous fashions sand- 
wiched in between the casualty-lists — ^because they paid — ^ 
their long notices of new plays, petty scandals. 

Any serious-minded student of a hundred years hence, 
perusing the papers that appeared during those first years 
of the Great War — which has ceased even now to smell of 
blood, and become a sort of phrase — will experience a 
strangely hit-on-the-head feeling when he realizes how large 
a part of what is, at least, our most bulky, loudest-crowing 
cock on its own dunghill daily was devoted to the exposition 
of the new full skirts, running into an almost incredible 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


63 


quantity of those materials which — or so the people were 
told, in the very same papers — would each month become 
more scarce. 

But what Hoyland and his kind failed to realize was that 
all this did not matter in the very least. That the business 
of war went on just the same, whether women wore ballet- 
skirts in the streets, and little flat curls over either ear, or 
whether they didn’t; whether or not young men of the 
pacifist policy talked about the sacred rights of /the in- 
dividual ; whether or not old men prosed on in their clubs, 
swelling with a vicarious sacrifice: nothing mattered, noth- 
ing! In some amazing way the thing was going on to 
its own appointed end ; and what that end might be nothing 
which was happening at the time appeared to give even the 
very faintest indication; while deep, deep down in the 
heart of every thinking man and woman was the feeling 
that, though they must still, every one of them, strive on 
they were yet, in some strange fashion, standing apart, 
utterly helpless — whatever they might give, whatever they 
might do — waiting to see if evil — ^brutal, aggressive, puffed- 
up evil — would be allowed to conquer the world ; almost 
certain that it would not; knowing that if it did there 
would be the end of everything — faith, love, beauty, self- 
sacrifice. 

Hoyland did not think like this, feel like this : he deplored 
the wanton destruction of works of art, the trampling-down 
of what he — with many others — had regarded as his special 
playground — the Continent. Later on, when Venice was in 
danger, he was angry and disgusted: it was time the thing 
was put an end to: why the devil didn’t somebody do 
something? 

He had been accustomed to have everything done for 
him all his life; and he expected to have everything done 
for him now, in this question of the war: he had never 
had any responsibilities, and he did not intend to assume 
them: he had no stake in the country. England, for him, 
was represented by London; and P^ris, Vienna, Berlin, 
would serve him just as well — in mo^ ways better. 

As to the war, he had not started it. He quoted Diogenes 
and his fleer at the busy-ness of the people of Corinth, when 
Philip was known to be marching upon the town ; told how 
he went rolling his tub up and down the Craneum, explain- 
ing to any acquaintance who inquired why he did so: “I 


64 < 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


do not wan? to be thought the only idler in such ia busy 
multitude: I am rolling my own tub to be like the 
rest.” 

Hoyland was a more than fair classical scholar : he loved 
la good quotation almost as much as he loved a sneer. He 
did not stop to consider that, after all, Diogenes did nothing 
whatever to defend his fellows, or to wonder how the 
Corinthians took this funniness of the philosopher at such a 
time : getting into every one’s way with his tub. 

Oh, but it all sounded well ; it sounded so well. He was 
so sure of himself, so well-bred and secure that he led a little 
flock of his own. When young men forsook his following, 
they did so with a sort of shame; creeping away as quietly 
as possible, deadly afraid of seeming too much in earnest 
about this war, for which so many fine young men gave their 
lives, and which Hoyland — just Hoyland, a man-about-town, 
a trifle worn by vice, tending to a slight, yery slight, overplus 
of flesh, otherwise very fit, for he had never allowed his 
excesses to interfere with his health — ^he was almost as 
careful as his mother about that — a man who had never 
really loved, never really grieved, never, never, above all, 
never given himself away — had a trick of making appear 
as something petty and just a trifle ridiculous. 

Some, as I say, crept away and joined up : at first wonder- 
ing, rather shamefacedly, what Hoyland and their old set 
would say to see them in khaki; and then not caring a 
twopenny damn what any one said or thought. 

And so that special set grew for a while gradually smaller; 
then remained stationary, having got down to a residue 
which nothing, apart from compulsion* could ever hope to 
touch. 

The residue did not completely please Hoyland: there 
were plenty of people left to dance and play bridge with, to 
dabble in all sorts of so-called spiritualistic inanities, or 
grotesque growths of art and literature. But the best of 
the men, his own contemporaries, Oxford acquaintances — 
barristers, young politicians, even those intellectual triflers 
like himself — were gone: if they were not out of the country, 
they were for ever engrossed in something or other to do 
with the war. Those who were left were no longer Hoy- 
land’s equals : they did not admire him because of his brains, 
but because he had the reputation of being one of the fast- 
est, the most quietly unscrupulous man about tovrn. 


65 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

Hoyland grew sick of them ; he grew sick of the women 
who went about with him : he had always been fastidious 
in this respect, and though he sneered at the busy women, 
he could not fail to see how rapidly the idle ones were deteri- 
orating. It seemed as though every one must be touched 
to some finer or baser end. It is certain that those who 
definitely set themselves — at such a time — to assuage their 
own thirst after attention, notoriety, by any sort of 
maneuver which offered itself rapidly deteriorated; while 
such things went on in London at this time that if God 
failed to send down fire from Heaven it was only because 
He had grown so much older since the days of the prophets, 
less perturbed and angered by the monkey-tricks of those 
whom He was once supposed to have made in His own 
image ; realizing the fact that such people find their ,end 
in themselves. 

What perturbed Hoyland more than anything else, per- 
haps, was the slow-growing discovery that all sorts of things 
and people which used to amuse him had ceased to do so. 
He had never before been in England for so long at a time, 
and it irked him beyond words. 

Once, when he was a tiny boy, and his father and mother 
had wished to be rid of him for a time, he had been sent 
to board at a little farm in a place called Sotteville-sur-Mer, 
not very far from Dieppe. 

How he had hated that farm ! It was a mile or more from 
the village ; and about the same distance from the sea, the 
sands, with their steep, yellow cliffs; while all around it 
were nothing but absolutely flat fields. 

Of those fields, lying between the farmhouse and three 
cottages which stood apart from the village, and at the 
further side of it, a strange tale was told. 

A man started to walk across them one day, with two or 
three of his fellows, all going to their work at the farm. 
The cottages, with their narrow strip of garden, edged the 
fields : there were no hedges or ditches, no quarry, no pond or 
stream, no group of trees, no bush: the fields were bare 
plow, save for one large square, still gleaming pale yellow 
with stubble, which they were going to plow that day. At 
least. The Man Who Disappeared was going to plow it: 
he had started the afternoon before, and cut a narrow strip 
along one side, left his plow sticking in the thick clayey soil. 

“The Man Who Disappeared’' — that was how little Charles 


66 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Hoy land always heard him spoken of, as though the words 
formed the well-known name of one man. l:\or this was, 
literally, what did happen. The man who set out from his 
home at seven o’clock that late October morning, to finish 
the plowing of that field, vanished — dropped out of sight, 
for ever and a day — disappeared, absolutely and entirely. 

One-third of the way across the fields from his house — 
flat as the sole of your foot, remember — he fancied that he 
had left his tobacco-box behind, and started off back for it ; 
leaving the knotted red-and-white handkerchief which held 
his dejeuner in charge of his companion, so that he might 
run the faster with both hands free. 

The other men walked on. But, after a very few minutes, 
three at the most, some said not more than two — the work- 
men used to argue over it in the farmhouse kitchen, though 
it had happened when their fathers and mothers were still 
young — the man who carried the bundle, holding it carelessly 
by the knot, so that it swung against his leg, became aware 
that there was something hard in it, discovered the missing 
box, and, turning about so that he might shout to his fellow, 
found, to his surprise, that he was already out of sight, must 
be in the house searching for his missing property, likely 
enough scolding his wife because he could not find it. 

His comrades remarked that he must have run like a hare 
to have reached home so quickly — for, mind you, there was 
nowhere else that he could be. 

When they arrived at the farm they looked round once 
more, but still there was no sign of him, and they had their 
bucolic joke over the fact that he was as slow in returning as 
he had been almost magically quick in going. 

During the whole of that day he failed to put in an 
appearance at the farm, and the plow remained stuck 
where he had left it the night before; while the farmer, 
cursing, was yet too busy to waste any one’s time in sending 
to make inquiries. 

When the other men who lived in the same row got home 
that night, their first thought was to go to the middle house 
and ask after their comrade, more than half afraid, by now, 
that he must have been taken ill. 

The good wife was getting the supper ready for her hus- 
band; the children were playing by the fire: they had 
been out in the strip of garden all the morning, for it was 
holiday-time. If their father had come home they must 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


67 


have seen him. And even if they failed, the children of the 
neighbors at either side, or the old grandfather digging in 
the garden, must have seen him. 

But he had not come home : he had not been to the village, 
or to any of the villages round. It was a mile, more, across 
the flat, open fields to the sea, and even then the only way of 
reaching the beach was by a steep ladder which ran down 
the side of the cliff. But an old woman sat there from dawn 
to dark, extracting toll from all who wished to pass up or 
down, and must have seen him had he gone that way. 

But nobody had seen him — nobody ever saw him again. 
For a year or so he was spoken of by his name ; then he be- 
came definitely remembered as The Man Who Disappeared. 

Even at the age of seven Hoyland had very little imagina- 
tion. But certain things frightened him. That flat, open 
stretch of fields would have affected him disagreeably, even 
without the sinister story which was sufficient to prevent 
even the hardiest youngsters of Sotteville-sur-Mer from at- 
tempting any short cut across them. They were all alike 
pasture-land by then, because for so many years no one 
could be found to plow them up, and the grass had grown 
by itself, with the old plow still embedded somewhere in the 
depths of it. The cows were not tethered there as they 
were in other places, but let loose because when the shades 
of evening began to fall, it was certainly more pleasant 
to call them from afar than to go and untie them, stooping, 
fumbling after knots, and never knowing what might happen. 

Once, out of sheer bravado, little Charles Hoyland elected 
to walk alone across those fields from, the farm to the cottages. 

He never quite forgot his sensation. The sky was bril- 
liantly blue, almost without a cloud ; pretty well as blue upon 
the horizon as it was overhead. 

If Charles Hoyland had been a little taller he might have 
seen the sea, the village. But, as it was, he saw nothing but 
the grass, much longer than he liked, and, at an immense 
distance from each other, the three cottages and the farm 
buildings. 

The sky was so shining and smooth that it seemed perfect- 
ly horrible to him, fitting tight down all round the edges of 
his world. He could not but think of the farmer’s wife 
cutting out oatcakes with the top of a cup, for it was pre- 
cisely like this that the sky cut off that disk of green. 

It might have been then that his hatred of open spaces. 


68 THE LITTLE SOUL 

of undecorated nature, pushed out its first definite root. 

‘‘I hate the country,” he had said when he joined his 
parents in Paris. ‘'I don’t want ever to go into the country 
again — I could smack its stupid old face for it.” “Full of 
its own stupid secrets,” he added later to one of his own 
special friends, a beautiful young lady of five-and-twenty 
or so, for he never had any great taste for other children. 

That blue basin of sky was further imprinted upon his 
mind when he was at Sotteville-sur-Mer by the way in which 
one of the farm-boys used to trap the rats: putting down 
some scraps of food upon the granary floor and tilting up one 
of the big corn-measures above them with the help of two 
little light strips of wood placed V-wise, so that the slight- 
est touch would send it over. 

Of course the crowning difficulty of this trick lay in getting 
the rats out of the trap without letting them escape; and 
Hoyland, mounted upon a ladder, so that they might not run 
up his legs, used to watch this proceeding with the greatest 
interest. But the farm-boy, so slow in most ways, was 
quick in everything which had to do with animals, and 
though he was often bitten he seldom lost his prey. 

It was borne in upon Hoyland one day that the corn- 
measure was to the rats what the sky was to him, the farm- 
boy taking the place of that mysterious something — some of 
the people openly said “le bon Dieu,” visualizing a hand 
swooping down and snatching — which had dealt so sum- 
marily with The Man Who Disappeared. 

This thought, however, did nothing towards making little 
Charles Hoyland hope that the rats might escape ; aroused 
in him no sense of sympathy for other creatures so trapped : 
on the contrary, the interest he had always felt in the pro- 
ceeding was converted to a sort of cold pleasure, triumph. 
It was good to see anything suffer as he had feared that 
he might suffer. 


CHAPTER IX 

Towards the end of the second year of the war he began 
to feel a little as he had felt in those far-away days ; as the 
rats might have felt — shut in and hemmed round. 

His mother and elder sister were still in London, in a 
much less pretentious flat in South Kensington, for there 
was now no possible chance of Prince Versilov getting over 


THE LITTLE SOUL 69 

to England. This did not mean that Mrs. Hoyland gave up 
all idea of a second marriage — only that she had felt obliged 
to lower her expectations. The prospect of marriage with 
an English business or retired army man was dull in the 
extreme — she knew herself too well to even think of a 
country squire — and insensibly the realization gave her an 
air of shrinking, ageing; particularly when she was alone 
with her family and there was no need to keep up appear- 
ances. For middle-age with a woman of her type begins 
when all adventurous possibilities are at an end; as to old 
age, that does not matter — nothing matters after this. 

Maisie had been sent to school at Brighton; not a very 
first-class school, but that could not be helped. It was 
necessary to keep up appearances in other ways, and as no 
outsider ever went to visit a girl during her term time, there 
was no sense in wasting money in that direction. 

“What does it matter if it is a little plain, bourgeois 
remarked Mrs. Hoyland. “Nothing is ever likely to make 
Maisie lower her standards, her ideas of what is due to her. 
If I had sent Rose to a school of that sort, she would have 
been wearing cotton gloves by choice in a month, forgotten 
how to go in and out of a room, receive, be received. In 
less than two years now Maisie will have left school. I shall 
want all the money I can spare for her debut ; it’s no good, 
wasting it upon the sort of education they give to girls at 
these English schools. La ! such misses, all teeth and stom- 
ach ! Maisie will marry very soon — I shall have no trouble 
with her : but it’s just as well she should be kept out of sight 
for a while. It doesn’t do for people to grow accustomed to 
the sight of a girl at all ages. During the holidays she can 
go to the sea with Rose : somewhere in Devon or Cornwall, 
where it is cheap.” 

Maisie at her bourgeois school, at her remote holiday- 
haunts, with sea-bathing and country walks, grew in beauty ; 
even her brother could not fail to be struck by her appear- 
ance, her grace and charm, when she came up to London for 
those winter holidays. Carefully handled, she was going 
to be a distinct family asset, this younger sister of his. She 
was very sure of herself. Given her head for just one week, 
as a sort of trial trip, she was surrounded by young men. 

Mrs. Hoyland was very careful with her — as careful as an 
Englishman with a valuable horse. If she sent her out 
alone with Rose, she gave the elder girl all sorts of instruc- 


70 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


tions: to look every way at the crossings, not to allow her 
out of her sight for a moment, only to take her to ladies’ 
shops, such as Marshall & Snelgrove’s, for tea. Nothing 
was so stupid as to allow young girls to be seen about alone 
in restaurants arid places of that sort. ^ 

“And yet Mamma left me anywhere, like a parcel,” said 
Rose ; “used me as a sort of messenger-boy, sent me down to 
Hurlingham alone one day, to give a note to some man or 
other; kept me waiting in the lounges of pretty well every 
hotel in Europe. Just because she thought that nobody 
would notice me, because I was plain. I wonder how plain 
a girl has to be before men stop staring, being horrid. 
That’s what I’d like to know !” 

She had come in very tired one evening about six o’clock, 
after a long day racing here, there and everywhere with her 
young sister ; alone, because they had been at a private view 
together and Maisie had refused to come home when she 
told her, reminded her that they must be back early as she 
had to write some notes for her mother, help her to dress 
for the theater, see that the rather incompetent parlormaid 
set the table properly, as they were expecting guests for 
dinner. 

In general. Rose was so patient, so long-suffering, that 
Maisie had gone on talking to some particular friend of her 
own; had never, even for a moment, thought of taking her 
at her word when she declared that if she did not come 
at once she would go home without her ; while Heaven only 
knows what it was that overcame Rose, so that she turned 
away and left her — ^though it is to be supposed that even 
plain people have feelings which at times get the better 
of them, like every one else. The mischief lay in the fact 
that Rose’s feelings had been so long disregarded, she had 
kept them so completely to herself, that there was a univer- 
sal sense of rage at the thought of her even daring to possess 
such things. 

^ She came up into the drawing-room, where Hoyland was 
sitting alone by the fire, and flung her parcels on to the 
nearest table, knocked over a vase of violets and, picking 
them up, tossed them into the fire — in place of dropping upon 
her knees, to rnop up the water, as she should have done. 

I didn t get Mamma her new book ; they kept me waiting 
so long, I was sick and tired of that stupid, stuffy library. 
Have you seen her ? I forgot to take her brooch to be mended. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


71 


and she wanted it particularly for to-night — Well, she’ll 
have to go without it, that’s all. Why should some people 
have everything, and other people nothing? I declare I’m 
run off my feet.” She was loosening the fur at her neck, 
dragging off her gloves, as she spoke: never before had 
her brother seen so much color, animation in her face. 

“She might be really — not pretty, but handsome, if only 
one could keep her alive,” he thought. 

“As for that Maisie — ” Suddenly she began to laugh, 
almost hysterically ; and at that moment Mrs. Hoyland 
opened the door and came in. She always moved very 
quietly, almost noiselessly; and yet no one could fail to 
realize when she entered a room — somehow or other, people 
seemed to straighten themselves, become conscious of all 
small defects, in appearance, pose^ — and Rose, who was 
facing the fire, turned round, stood with her shoulders a 
little raised. 

Mrs. Hoyland moved well ; even in a small room this was 
noticeable. It seemed as though the center of her gravity 
was different from that of most women, as though her whole 
body moved from, was in concord with, her trimly-rounded 
waist. She was dressed in black, as always, with a string of 
pearls, the gleam of a small diamond brooch, at her throat ; 
her hair smoothly waved, her face — which had grown a little 
leaden during the last few months — perfectly impassive. In 
herself she was swayed by nerves, greed, restless ambition, 
an overweening vanity ; but though she showed these emo- 
tions in her acts, her speech, her whole physical person still 
hung smoothly, as though upon some unseen and upright 
axle. 

“By Jove,” thought Hoyland, “I don’t wonder that Rose 
is afraid of her!” He glanced at his sister. Yes, it was 
evident enough that Rose was afraid : she had turned half- 
sideways, was gathering her parcels from off the table where 
she had placed them. With his cruel acuteness Hoyland 
smiled to see the way in which she endeavored to sweep 
away some of the water from the overturned vase with her 
fur boa ; to rub what had fallen into the floor with her foot. 
What fools women like Rose were ! She was so necessary 
to her mother that if she had chosen to assert herself she 
might have stood equal with her. Only to think of the things 
which she could have told, the rod she might have held in 
pickle, had she but possessed the sense! 


72 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

“I must take the caviare to cook; an* there are the little 
dark olives you like — ” 

“Why are you here? Where’s Maisie?” Mrs. Hoyland 
stared, sweeping aside her daughter’s words as she had a 
trick of doing. 

“I don’t know.” Rose’s face set into sullenness, grew 
white; she stood awkwardly holding her parcels gathered 
up to her. 

“You don’t know !” 

— I suppose she’ll be back soon — she wouldn’t come. 

I had heaps of things to do at home.” 

“You don’t appear to be very busy. . . . Where is your 
sister now?” 

“I don’t know — I told you I don’t know! I left her at 
the Leicester Gallery.” 

“You — ^left — her — at the Leicester Gallery!” 

“She wouldn’t come when I told her. I thought I’d be 
late— I—” 

“And you dare — you have the audacity — to come back here 
and tell me. You! — when I gave your little sister particu- 
larly into your charge — when I told you never to let her out 
of your sight! You — ^you — to tell me that you left her in 
the Leicester Gallery — left her — ^the Leicester Gallery, of all 
places !” 

“I went about all over the place at her age, was left any- 
where. Nobody troubled . . . nothing happened !” 

Mrs. Hoyland gave a short laugh ; that and her stare, up 
and down, over her elder daughter, as though she were an 
utter stranger — some creature apart — was more cruel than 
any words; and, yet, even this did not content her; she 
must follow it up with words, chastising with scorpions. 
Rose had been unceasingly useful to her; but for all that 
she was ashamed of having such a daughter — so dull, so com- 
monplace. Rose represented the one undertaking in which 
she did not feel that she had succeeded; and for this she 
could never forgive her. She felt as a woman might with an 
illegitimate child, that here was a continual slur upon her. 

“Nothing happened! Do you imagine that I need to be 
told that? Do you imagine that I didn’t very well know 
what I was doing when I allowed you to go about alone. 
You, you! — mon Dieu! — ^you — ^you who’d be safe in Lei- 
cester Square at midnight — so long as the lamps were lit, so 
long as men have eyes in their heads.” All the secret coarse- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


73 


ness and brutality of the woman was evident in the way in 
which her eyes raked her daughter, in her angry laugh — the 
only wonder was that she did not stand with both hands upon 
her hips. “Safe! Safe as the Bishop of London him- 
self — or any other old woman!” 

This was too much, even for Rose. She was accustomed 
to her mother’s outbreaks of fury; but this! Is there 
any more intolerable insult to be offered to any girl than 
taking it for granted that she can prove no possible source 
of temptation or attraction? Thus it is that women who 
are unused to admiration will boast of, while seeming to 
deplore, the rare fact that they have been followed, stared 
at, in the streets. 

“You say that — ^you say it because you don’t know — 
Because you find me so repulsive, it doesn’t mean that every- 
body — everybody — Things have happened to me^ — people 
have — ” She broke off, choked with tears. 

For a moment or so Mrs. Hoy land’s glance persisted : then 
she turned aside. “You’re a fool, Rose !” she said — “that’s 
what you are — a fool ! Next time you and your sister are 
in a room with a large mirror, look at yourself by her 
side, and perhaps even you will acknowledge that I have 
some reason for what I do. And now — ” 

For the first time since she had entered the room, she 
appeared to notice her son. 

“Look at that fire, Charles. I suppose you’d sit there and 
let it go out ! Can no one do anything, unless I’m here to 
tell them ? The next thing will be that I shall have to put 
the food into the mouths of my family, as well as provide it 
— pandering to their extravagance — selfishness. Do you 
expect me to make up the fire myself, may I ask?” 

“By no means.” Without moving, Hoyland stretched out 
one hand and touched the bell. He did not intend to exert 
himself — dirty his fingers by putting coal on the fire any 
more than his mother would have done. Rose was the only 
person in that house who ever even thought of such a thing. 

She dropped on her knees now. “I’ll do it ; let me do it. 
Smart’s busy setting the table.” She began picking out 
scraps of coal from the scuttle with tongs which were too 
large for the purpose and kept crossing each other ; glanced 
sideways at her mother, realized her impatience, and started 
afresh with the shovel, making an almost unbearable noise 
over it. 


74 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


“It strikes me that you have the mind of a servant without 
the dexterity. Be good enough to stop that clatter and listen 
to me. Did you come straight home?” 

“Yes — ^no — not exactly. I took a ’bus to the High Street, 
then went to Mudie’s to ask about the book you wanted — 
and after that for the caviare and stuff at Barker’s.” 

“Then you did not come straight home, and Maisie 
may — ” 

“I can take a taxi, if you like — ^gO' back — ” 

“Wasting money for nothing; likely enough passing her 
on the way.” 

“Well, if she is on the way home, it’s — ” 

’“Who said that she was on the way home? How do you 
know where she is? — what’s happened to her? You never 
read the paper, you know nothing of what goes on in the 
world. But this is the end! Enough of your stupidity. 
You’ll have to find something to do — I’m tired of feeding, 
dressing such a dolt — ^though Heavcn only knows what! 
Not even fit to be trusted as a nursi. ry governess. A com- 
panion — that’s all you’re any use for! An old lady’s paid 
companion — to do the flowers — tcke out the lap-dog — 
to — ” 

Rose made a sudden clumsy movement — she dropped one 
of her parcels, but she did not seem to heed it — her face was 
crimson. “She is ugly — like a great calf!” thought her 
brother, and drew aside his foot as she stumbled over it, 
making blindly for the door. 

“What else^ — ” began Mrs. Hoyland again, then broke off 
as — of a sudden — Rose swung round, interrupted her, 
shouted — Rose of the subdued and doubtful voice! — 

“What else? Yes, w'hat else? What else have I ever 
been? A companion! — not even paid, unpaid! A com- 
panion—” She paused a moment, then launched it: “A 
companion to a silly — vain — empty-headed — old woman !” 

“Hulloa !” It was Maisie ; but Rose pushed past without 
even pausing to glance at her ; went on out of the door, with 
her head thrust forward, blind with tears, hot with a strange, 
almost exhilarating sense of rage. What did it matter to her 
if Maisie had come back, or if she never came back? 

But her mood had already changed; she was trembling 
from head to foot, by the time she reached her room. The^ 
pot of caviare was on the drawing-room floor — what would 
the cook be doing without it? She had meant to rearrange 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


75 


the flowers upon the dinner-table ; and how could she ever do 
her mother’s hair with hands that trembled so ? All her fine 
fury was past ; she was netted in again by the thousand and 
one trivial duties of which her life was composed — labori- 
ously fitted together like a patchwork quilt, made up of all 
the little odds and ends that no one else could be bothered 
with; nothing worth considering in itself, no single piece 
that you could really do anything witli. 

“That Rose!” exclaimed Maisie. “Butting into one like 
an old ram!” 

“What are you doing here?” 

“Darling, where else should I be?” Maisie smiled at her 
mother ingratiatingly. In her neat blue rge coat and skirt, 
white fox boa and muff, and little plain bk ^k velvet hat, with 
her carmine cheeks and dancing eyes, she v^^s a sight to make 
the old young. 

“Why didn’t you come home with Ko?' 

“She went off alone, in a huff. Oh, si.c Kept bothering; 
it wasn’t Rose’s fault. I suppose there’s been a shindy; 
but you know the way Rose goes on, just when one’s enjoy- 
ing oneself for once, about all sorts of silly little things which 
don’t in the least matter. Anyhow, Bobbie Darrell brought 
me home in his car ; and here I am — and I won’t — I won’t, 
have you cross.” She slipped her arm through her mother’s, 
rubbed her face against hers. She could not always manage 
her like this, but when Rose was in disgrace, particularly 
now, during the brief Christmas holidays, she was pretty well 
sure of her ground. Over her mother’s shoulder she shut 
one eye, winked delicately at her brother, her long dark 
lashes just sweeping her cheek. 


CHAPTER X 

In the spring of nineteen-fourteen, when McCabe dropped 
out of sight, Charles was rather relieved than otherwise. It 
\vould have been a pity for the poor old ass to have got into 
any trouble — that’s what he would have said. But, as a mat- 
ter of fact, it was for himself alone that he feared. There was 
that confounded maid of Leila’s ; if she came into the affair, 
as she was bound to do, seeing that the greater part of the 
evidence depended upon her alone, she would be sure to get 
her knife into him ; a nuisance, when all his life he had taken 


76 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


such care to keep clear of any unpleasant publicity, had al- 
ways “run straight,’’ as he said ; which meant that there had 
been no witness to his doublings. For to him nothing in the 
world mattered, apart from being found out ; he and his mother 
held together upon this point, it was their one law and gospel. 

But, later on, when there was no longer any fear of 
unpleasant consequences in connection with Leila Gavin’s 
death, Hoyland was glad to hear news of his friend ; news 
that should, indeed, have made any man proud of such 
a friendship. 

It was latish in nineteen-sixteen that it began to come — 
filtering meagerly enough through the papers — telling of a 
certain Doctor McCabe, attached to nothing in particular — 
unless it were the needs of humanity — who had worked like 
twenty men during the evacuation \)f Bucharest, the re- 
treat intoi Moldavia. 

Then, as more invalided men came out of hospital ; began 
to pick up again — with a strange lassitude, or still stranger 
avidity — the threads of London life, Hoyland came to hear 
more of McCabe ; the tale of his doings working gradually 
backwards, until it reached August of nineteen-fourteen, not 
much more than a couple of months after his disappearance ; 
when he was already at odds with the flood-tide of suffering 
in Serbia. 

It was little more than a word here and a word there ; for 
it was plain that men who had seen him at work felt strongly 
on the subject, and where Englishmen really feel, they say 
little. 

“He’s just one o’ those sorter chaps that don’t bear talkin’ 
about,” declared a haggard veteran of twenty or so; one of 
those sadly shattered boys — with young faces criss-crossed 
over by innumerable, finely-penciled lines, giving the lie to 
their persistent gayety — who were beginning to be seen about 
almost everywhere by this time. 

One vjay and another it became clear that while the Eng- 
lish medical authorities were growing to feel that they might 
let bygones be bygones and make some use of Philip McCabe, 
he was already known to thousands of war-racked, disease- 
ravaged, half -starved men — aye, and women too ; though not 
the sort of women who were at all likely to hinder him in the 
old way ; women whose one idea was to bear sons, and more 
and yet more sons, to feed the altar-fires of their fierce 
patriotism. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


77 


It seems that at the beginning — with the exception of that 
devoted rag-and-bobtail element which he never failed to 
attract to himself — McCabe formed a complete surgical, 
medical, nursing and commissariat unit in his own person. 

A little later, driven out from Scutari, he was flung by some 
pressure of circumstances, or cry for help, into Bucharest — 
there was some tale of intervening weeks in Avlona — then 
flung out from Bucharest with his sick and wounded gathered 
around him, as a hen gathers its young under its wing. 
For weeks on end he was working incessantly, without sleep, 
almost without food; halting by the wayside to perform 
operations, which, in the old days in England, would have 
called for the very finest paraphernalia, the most stringent 
precautions of a highly-equipped theater; refusing help to 
none; moving like a shuttle with a silken thread, forever 
to and fro, through the welter of humanity; the broken 
soldiers, the old men, the women and children which clung 
so desperately to the skirts of the fleeing multitude — until 
men began to boast of the fact that they had worked under 
McCabe — Philip McCabe of shady Soho fame. 

The great thing was that he did not, as so many must needs 
have done — ^appalled by the call upon their energies — work 
blindly on like a man endeavoring to stop the flow of the sea 
with his hands. There were certain things against which he 
was convinced that some sort of a dam might be contrived. 
He remembered, compared, tabulated — thanking God that 
his years with the swine and their husks had not permanently 
injured his memory — and thus, out of these crowded days, 
fresh discoveries in regard to his theories of anti-toxin began 
to take definite shape ; passed in steady sequence from specu- 
lation to certainty. 

After the Bucharest aflair, the French Red Cross — less 
tangled with tape of the same color than its English comphe 
— was quick enough to annex McCabe. 

During the first month of nineteen-seventeen he was back 
in England on some medical mission or other, when Hoyland, 
coming down the steps of his club in St. James’s, saw him 
pass in the becoming blue-gray uniform ; so lean and brown 
and upright ; so drawn out to a fine point of intense vitality 
and purpose that he was almost past before he realized who 
it was. 

It seemed as though Charles Hoyland must have grown 
conscious of being a trifle out of it, apart, for his first feeling 


78 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


was one of more spontaneous gladness than was common to 
him, and he actually ran down the steps, waving his hand 
to his friend. Then, finding that McCabe was too far ahead 
to see him, hurried in pursuit, even speaking his name. 

Then, just when he was so near that he could have put 
out his hand and touched him, his mood changed. A feeling 
of sullen dislike came over him. “What am I to Hecuba, 
or Hecuba to me ?” he thought, contemptuously. 

That French Red Cross uniform! — he gave a little laugh 
as he pulled himself together and turned towards Piccadilly. 
It was exactly like McCabe, always in the limelight, one way 
or another — ^the English khaki was not showy enough, 
he supposed. 

Just as he reached the top of St. James’s he ran into a woman 
he knew, a Lady Carfax, wife of a new industrial magnate. 

“Mr. Hoyland! — Just the person I wanted — really, in 
these days, you seem the only man who ever has time for 
an3ithing sensible. Look here: Freddie’s had a haul — what 
a mercy there’s something to be got out of this wretched 
war! I’m sure it’s made us all uhcomfortable enough.” 

“Not you, surely ? I can’t imagine you allowing yourself 
to be made uncomfortable about anything.” 

Lady Carfax threw him a laughing look from her dark 
eyes. She had a wide sable scarf swathed round her neck 
and down over her shoulders, hiding her chin and mouth and 
her upturned, well-powdered nose; her brilliant eyes lit the 
small space between it and her turban-like toque of the same 
fur ; for the rest, there was an abbreviated length of fine blue 
cloth, transparent silk stocking and high-heeled patent leather 
shoes ; when she moved her head sideways like a bird there 
was the flash of diamonds in either ear. Looking at her, 
Hoyland reflected that she was probably five foot one in 
height, weighing little more than seven stone, flat-chested, 
narrow-hipped as a boy, while something well up to a couple 
of thousand pounds had gone to the furnishing of her ; and 
that was an under-estimate, for there was sure to be a pearl 
necklace, somewhere or other, dangling beneath a transparent 
bodice, amidst the lace and ribbons which cost so much and 
hid so little. 

“I said that because it is the sort of thing one does say; 
if one can’t look miserable, dowdy, one’s supposed to look 
depressed. But — you’ll not tell if I confess?” She showed 
her white teeth in a charming smile as they crossed Piccadilly. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


79 

‘‘Was there ever any man with surer instincts ? I suppose! 
that’s what makes us all love you so — I tell you Freddie’s had’ 
a haul, and without a moment’s hesitation you gently lead me 
into Bond Street. . . . A secret, now remember ! It wouldn’t, 
do to let Freddie know what he was doing, what a ripping 
time I was having. He’d draw in his horns like a snail at 
once. If I once showed I was contented, he’d think that he 
might spend half as much and still keep me in a good temper. 
But the fact is, I’ve never had such a time in my life. If 
any one asks me what I did in the great war — when I’m old 
enough to dare to speak the truth, and people realize what an 
absurd fuss they’ve been making — I shall tell that I enjoyed 
myself morning, noon and night. There was never anything 
like the freedom to do as one likes, spend how one likes. 
And talk about men ! ... Of course, I know that there are 
heaps and heaps of them being killed — one’s always hearing 
about it ; it doesn’t bear thinking of — ^besides, they must be 
exaggerating it in the papers ; how can it be true, when there 
never were so many men in London? — Every dance, just 
heaps and heaps of them, and every girl one knows getting 
married.” 

“And married and married and married! It’s a sort of 
stutter with some of them.” 

“What a cynic you are ! What do you say about going to 
Asprey’s ? I always think they’ve got some of the prettiest 
things in London, don’t you? Awfully dear — ^but as it’s 
Freddie’s treat! Let’s cross now, while there’s a little lull.” 

In Asprey’s they leant over tray after tray of jewels. 

“What will I have? I’ve a sort of idea of a long chain 
with sapphires and diamonds. Freddie wanted a tiara, 
but they don’t suit me a bit; I’m not big or important 
enough. He gave me one in the late autumn of nineteen- 
fourteen. I remember that because I saw some of the first 
flare skirts at Clarisse’s sale, when we were in town getting 
it — a horrid thing it was, too : great fat diamonds weighing 
half a hundredweight! It gives me a headache whenever 
I wear it — the crown of thorns — that’s what I call it. And 
I daren’t exchange it, or anything — at least, not yet; 
Freddie’s awfully sentimental about it, says it marks the turn 
of our fortunes. We were frightfully poor, you know. — 
Though for my part, I don’t see that it marks anything but 
my forehead.” 

“I wish your Freddie would put me on to a good thing. 


80 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Lady Carfax. . . . No, don't have those sapphires; have 
emeralds, they're ever so much smarter and much more 
becoming. Carfax won't grudge you a couple of hundred 
more, with things as they are." 

“I suppose not — he told me to get something really good. 
He hates me to spend money on rubbish. At the back of my 
mind I sometimes wonder whether he doesn't think there 
may be a sort of smash-up, and likes to have his money in 
something he can easily get away with," she added, dangling 
long chains of emeralds and pearls, interspersed with dia- 
monds, in either hand, shaking them this way and that to 
catch the light. “I know a lot of people feel like that: 
the Grimfelds, now; you should see the perfectly lovely 
pearls he's given her; insured up to the hilt, too. . . . Yes, 
you're right, Mr. Hoyland, the emeralds are ever so much 
smarter than the sapphires — particularly at night." She 
turned to the shopman and gave her name and address — 
they all knew Sir Joseph Carfax by that time — and then, 
the affair being at an end, turned sideways upon her high 
chair, perching like some exotic bird, so bright-eyed and 
trim, and began drawing on her gloves, touching the end of 
one first-finger and thumb with the tip of her little red tongue 
so as to manipulate the suede more easily. 

‘‘How those nouveau-riche women did give themselves 
away," thought Hoyland; she was generally so clever, but 
it was evident that she was thinking of something else ; had, 
for the moment, reverted to old Sheffield — or was it Man- 
chester ? — days. 

“It's an awful thing to say, I suppose, but really I shall 
be sorry for some things when the war's over — ^though of 
course it will be nice to be able to go abroad again. Freddie 
has come out so since it started; I suppose it's having so 
much to do puts him in a good temper — and of course mak- 
ing pots! Though he'd be mad if he could hear me say 
so." 

“Well, now you might be an angel and make some use 
of his amiability on my account, don't you think?" 

“I wonder. . . . Look here; don't trouble about tying 
it up"— she turned to the shopman with one of her quick 
movements I think 1 11 wear it, and you can send the case. 
... It really is lovely, isn't it ?" She loosened her fur and 
slipped the delicate, glittering thing over her head, where it 
sparkled ^vith a strange suggestion of grass and dewdrops 


THE LITTLE SOUL 81 

among the laces. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to 
you for helping me to choose it. ...” 

“Well — and now, what reward?” 

“You mean putting you on a good thing — not work, I 
suppose?” She eyed him with her head a little on one side. 

“What do you think?” Hoyland gave a little laugh. 

“Of course, I’ll see what I can do. But though he’s gener- 
ous in some ways, Freddie’s awfully funny in others ; secre- 
tive and all that, you know. He has a silly sort of idea that 
a man ought to have made good for himself by the time he’s 
about thirty: that it’s all a matter of stupid work. Of 
course, he did work awfully hard; but what he forgets is 
that he never made more than just enough to live on with 
it all. Well, I suppose I must go; I’ve an engagement to 
play bridge with Muriel Phillips and some other women 
at her club. — A regular Mo’ it is; she always wins every- 
thing ; only asks the women she can win from. But as she 
hasn’t anything else to dress on, or so they all say, I suppose 
it’s a form of charity to play with her. Besides, she does 
know lots of nice people, there’s no doubt about that.” 

With a nod and smile Ladyi Carfax turned off at Albe- 
marle Street, and, strolling slowly towards Piccadilly, feel- 
ing a little at a loose end, Hoyland suddenly decided that it 
was about time he went to see his mother, and hailed a 
passing taxi. 

The day was unpropitious. Lady Carfax’s words : “You 
are the only man who ever has time for anything in these 
days,” though intended as high praise, rankled. The sight 
of Philip McCabe, looking as though he were able to do so 
perfectly well without him, also rankled. He had almost 
run after him — he, Charles Hoyland, the aloof, the much- 
courted. He was less slender and active than he had been ; 
the action lacked dignity, and he knew it. McCabe, now — 
McCabe was the make for that sort of thing — could run: 
probably enough — he thought with a little sneer — had run, 
and to some tune, more than once too, despite the smart 
uniform. 

He had been used to declare that he did not know what 
jealousy was, had not the slightest difficulty in getting the 
best of everything he ever wanted in life. Sex jealousy, 
indeed, had never touched him, or never needed to. But the 
pride of prestige — that was a different matter. Here and 
now he found himself in the fork of a cleft stick. It seemed 


82 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


as though he might be forced to do what was eminently 
disagreeable to him, the very thought of which grew more 
and more abhorrent, piled upon by a thousand trifling 
instances. He had run a few steps that day : fancy having 
to run, dog-trot to order, go through all sorts of grotesque 
maneuvers under the abusive tongue of some sergeant- 
major or silly young ass of a subaltern! The discomfort 
would be appalling, the ignominy even worse. 

And yet, as against this there seemed nothing left but the 
loss of that sort of supremacy which was the very breath 
of his nostrils. It was already far gone. The values of life 
had changed so that, from being rather wonderful — so clever, 
cool, unscrupulous, so wonderfully well-dressed and attrac- 
tive to women — he had become petty, a little in every one’s 
way : another ten years or so and he would be a stoutish, mid- 
dle-aged clubman. Even his minor fame as an authority on 
dress was gone now when nearly every man was in khaki. 

He had been keeping away from his mother’s flat of late. 
Russia was in the first throes of the revolution ; mild enough, 
in all conscience, compared with what was still to come, but 
the effect upon Mrs. Hoyland was little less than devastating. 

There are those who think of their country as a person, 
with a passionate and personal love: others who feel little 
beyond that sense of duty which will draw them home to 
it at any moment of peril: to others, again, it represents 
nothing more than a special tract of land, with its heart 
in their own few acres — a sentiment at times romantic, 
at times utilitarian, and most often a little of the two. 

To Mrs. Hoyland Russia — that double-sex country, with 
its illimitable, its terrifying open spaces, its dark forests, 
its womanhood of summer flowers, yellow harvests and burn- 
ing sun ; its manhood of winter ice and snow ; with its dread- 
ful silence and still more dreadful cry of wind and wolf ; its 
fierce seasons for ever fighting and embracing, loving, hating, 
giving birth to the most stupendous phenomena, the strangest 
paradoxes of body and soul, delicacy and brutality, sentiment 
and savagery; the minds of the people reflecting the many 
minds of the country — was never visualized save in the form 
of blue or white or parchment-like paper, stocks and shares 
leading to those dividends which made her a privileged citi- 
zen of any part of the civilized world wliere it might please 
her to perch. 

Like so many women, she was more intolerant, more cruel 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


83 


than any man : in any disturbance, even in England, it is 
the women of the upper classes who cry out for the military 
— to turn their guns upon the wretches who want a fair share 
of produce for their toil ; and to Mrs. Hoyland’s mind every 
peasant in Russia who gave the slightest trouble must be 
mowed down, shot or forced to fight for the country which 
was to be tilled or mined for her special benefit. 

A sense of outrage, incredulity, was her paramount feeling. 
Maisie’s remark : “This old revolution’s clean taken the stuf- 
fing out of Mamma,” was almost grotesquely true. 

She had shrunken, wore a look of surprised indignation ; 
she who had been so sure of everything was no longer even 
sure of herself. Incessantly she railed against the Russians 
having ever J^een such fools as to cast in their lot with the 
English. That was the root of all the trouble. “They make 
a muddle of everything they undertake. There’d have been 
no revolution if they had sided with Germany at once — 
Germany wouldn’t have allowed it. Between them they 
would have gobbled up India and Egypt: serve you right, 
too. I’d like to see this wretched little parochial England 
in the dust. There — there' d be something worth living for ! 
Mon Dieu, to think that one ever looked up to the English 
— ^took them at their own valuation! The pawnbrokers of 
Europe, that’s what I call them.” She laughed shrilly. 
“Taking advantage of every one in any sort of trouble — 
grabbing — grabbing ! Do you know why the Albanians had 
,the Dutch officers in to train their men, instead of English? 
Because the English would have stripped them bare to the 
bone. Versilov told me that. . . .” 

And so on and on. Her fears of the discomfort of pos- 
sible loss were often enough swallowed up in a vindictive 
delight at any misfortune which overtook her husband’s 
people. In the bosom of her family she reviled them so 
unceasingly that it seemed as though she must have passed 
the power to desist. And yet that was far from being the 
case; for in society she let it be understood that she was 
wholly English, and nothing annoyed her more than for 
any one to say: “You Russians — ” 

She was at her writing bureau when her son entered ; very 
upright. In whatever other ways she might, undoubtedly 
had, gone down before the misfortunes of the last few months, 
she was still as perfectly gowned and coiffured as she had 
ever been. To let oneself go to pieces, that was the last of 


84 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


all crimes permitted to a woman. But her black dress was 
a year old, and though it had been carefully altered it showed 
the change in her, as did her own person, fight against it as 
she might. A year ago one might have predicted anything 
for her ; one would not have been in the least surprised to 
hear of her marrying some titled man of half her own age 
— she was of the Helen type which does that sort of thing. 
But now nothing could be foretold save old age: it seemed, 
and she knew it, with a bitterness which no words could 
have expressed, that she was past the age when things 
“happen” to a woman. She had said to Charles one day 
with sudden frankness : “Life’s no longer any good when 
there’s no possible temptation left to it. I’ve given up going 
to confession; even the priest yawns in my face.” 

She glanced up as her son entered the room, but she did 
not rise or lay down her pen. “Well ? What have you to 
say for yourself?” 

“What is there to say?” 

“Nothing. Less than nothing ! Ah, you English ! You’d 
make even a world war commonplace, shop-worn.” 

With a shrug of his shoulders Hoyland stooped over the 
fire, a spill in one hand, and lighted a cigarette. “Where 
are the girls?” 

“I sent Maisie back to school.” 

“I thought you said you couldn’t afford it !” 

“I couldn’t afford to keep her here. One selfish, exigeante 
person’s enough in any house” — she put her papers together 
and placed a weight upon them, then rose, moved over to 
the fire — “and as long as I live I intend to be that person,” 
she added with some humor. 

“She ought to marry, directly she’s out; marry well. 
Who knows? It may make all the difference to us, if she’s 
sensible.” 

“I shall see to that — ^be sensible for two. That’s partly 
why I sent her back to school. If she’s here she sees too 
much of me, gets too familiar. I shouldn’t have the same 
influence when it came to the point. Maisie’s the only asset 
I’ve left,” she added bitterly. “God knows I can’t afford to 
throw her away.” 

“And Rose?” 

“Rose imagines that she has found her vocation in nurs- 
ing wounded officers in Curzon Street.” 

Hoyland looked at his mother with a smile, to which she 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


85 


responded with a glance of acrid amusement. ‘The two 
V’s — Vocation and Virginity — seem to go together. Who 
ever heard of a pretty woman with a vocation?” She had 
opened a cigarette-case which hung by a slender gold chain 
to her waist, and lit a cigarette as she spoke. “Really, 
Rose looks almost handsome in that white, nunlike head- 
dress affair, and — Well, well, one must hope for the best. If 
she finds any one to marry her it will be the one solitary 
piece of good luck that the war’s brought us. All men are 
more or less fools — the mistake we women make is in not 
always making certain in which direction — while a sick man, 
however young, is a prophecy of senile decay. There’s no 
knowing ; she may pick up with some one or other. I take 
good care that she does not give too much time to her nurs- 
ing in a way that’s likely to injure her health, the little looks 
she has ; her skin’s quite good, you know. Really, Charles, 
I’d have managed to be attractive somehow or other on the 
strength of that skin alone. But — bah! she’s one of your 
English lumps ; that’s the only word for it.” 

“Not all English.” ^ 

“If there’s any Russian it’s a throw-back to some peasant 
or other. I never suspected my family of a mesalliance 
until I saw Rose developing into that bonne femme type.” 

Hoyland had thrown himself into a low chair, leant back 
with his legs crossed, smoking; while his mother stood with 
her elbow on the corner of the mantelpiece, looking down at 
him, one foot upon the fender, turned sideways so that it 
showed the inner arch of the instep. It amused him to see 
how she remembered these sort of little tricks, even with her 
own son. The likeness between the two was growing ; there 
was the same look of — it is difficult to put it into words, for 
it was not active enough for defiance — say, thwarted greed : 
an air of scornful drawing-back upon themselves, as though 
not finding the world as it used to be, ought to be, in relation 
to them. 

Mrs. Hoyland’s fine eyes were half-closed in a way that 
gave her an odd expression, for there was more of a raising 
of the lower lid than a dropping of the upper, a peculiarity 
noticeable in her son as well as herself. 

For a moment their eyes met, hers* drooping, his upraised ; 
“Well, now, to come to more important matters; what’s 
brought you here?” 

“A desire for the pleasure — no, not exactly that; say. 


86 THE LITTLE SOUL 

r 

rather, the sauce piquante of your company, my dear Mother.” 

For another moment Mrs. Hoyland's glance persisted, 
probing his thoughts. Then she gave a short laugh : '‘Really, 

I do believe you’re speaking the truth, for once — or half the 
truth. Poor precious! has he been snubbed, then? More 
white feathers, eh? — actual or emblematical? It’s come to 
this, you’ll have to join the herd, mon cher, for the simple 
reason that life will be even more difficult apart from it than 
with it.” 

"It’s damned uncomfortable, anyhow; nothing to do, 
nowhere to go — literally nowhere to go. People fall foul of 
us for 'going on amusing ourselves just as usual’ — how many 
times have I heard that said ! Fools ! As if it were possible 
to go on amusing oneself upon a little island where you feel 
that you may get pushed over the edge any moment, if you so 
much as crook your elbow at a different angle to your neigh- 
bor! Besides, if one did succeed in getting out of England 
now, where the devil could one go? The whole world’s 
about as attractive, for the moment, as a woman with a sick 
headache.” 

"You’ll have to marry, Charles; that’s what it comes to. 
With a rich wife, if you were not amused you would at least 
be comfortable. Only not an American ; they want it all for 
themselves.” 

"And how the devil could I spend her money, even if I got 
it, unless this confounded war comes to an end? Not but 
that it would be useful, even at this juncture.” 

"Ah-h-h!” Men had been used to say that Mrs. Hoy- 
land’s laugh always made them think of champagne, so clear 
and sparkling ; it was clear enough now, but dry and a little 
flat, as she turned again to her writing-table and took up her 
pen. "I thought it would come to that. But let me remind 
you, my dear, that there’s nothing to be gained by milking a 
dry COW. ^ How long I shall be able to continue paying the 
rent of this flat, keep up any sort of appearance, meet cur- 
rent expenses for food and drink — let alone clothes — heaven 
only knows; and it seems that heaven is not disposed to 
concern itself.” 

For a moment or so she paused, tapping with the end of 
her pen upon the blotter, staring very straight in front of her. 
Seen thus, with her face in repose, hard, deep lines showed, 
cutting down from either nostril to the sides of her mouth^ 
while her upper lip was marked with short perpendicular 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


87 


furrows. She did not look actually old ; more like a middle- 
aged woman transformed to a stone image, of which some 
sculptor had said, “Look now, and I’ll show you the lines of 
ruthless self-seeking, bitterness of spirit!” 

“I can’t sleep — if only I could sleep 1” she exclaimed sud- 
denly, with one of those accesses of uncontrolled feeling 
which broke so oddly through her composure. “I’ve never 
closed my eyes without a sleeping-draught since the New Year, 
and I shall come to the end of that soon. There’s something 
in me that awakes and awakes and awakes, defying sleep*. 
God knows I never believed any of that talk about eternal 
life I But sometimes, now, I think of it as eternal wakefulness. 
... Of course, I kept on the safe side, went to mass, con- 
fessed. I was like an English mother of an idiot child, heir 
to an entailed property ; though all the doctors declare that he 
can’t live to grow up, she feels that he may, and turn nasty 
with power, and so propitiates him. I never believed, never 
really believed. But now I do believe, hate myself for it, 
just because I’m frightened, horribly frightened that this 
awakening habit will go on, break through death ; that even 
then there will be no chance of a real, a lasting sleep.” 

She had laid down her pen as she spoke, clasped her hands 
in front of her ; her perfect immobility giving force and pas- 
sion to the almost savage intensity of her words. “Life is 
damnable for a woman when she’s past her youth. And if I 
go on — mon Dieu! how does one go on?^ As a middle-aged 
woman throughout eternity — ^and the Virgin Mary forever 
young! Ugh! how we other women would hate her! . . . 
Are there any dressmakers in Purgatory, or wherever we’ll 
find ourselves ? Or shall we go on and on with the same old 
clothes, the same ridiculous old fashions; white kid gloves 
never fresh or clean? And the newly-dead in the very 
latest !” She gave a little laugh ; once again she was like 
her son in the way in which this sort of talk diverted her 
from her brooding. 

“A few fat, middle-aged women — ^too fat; and the rest 
a flat-chested, narrow-hipped down-at-the-heel crew. No 
marriage or giving in marriage ; nothing to raise a flutter of 
scandal. Your Englishwomen worst of all. Sometimes I 
laugh when I lie in bed at night and think of them — of what 
the resurrection of the body might mean.” 

“Ah, well, the present life’s enough for me — and it used to 
be very much the same for you also, my dear Mother — • 


88 nC'HE LITTLE SOUL 

without thinking of the future. Eon^t grow pious in your 
old age ; it’s a common enough outcome of ennui 

‘‘Pious ! Pious I” Mrs. Hoyland laughed, a trifle shrilly. 
“My dear Charles, the very word ‘pious’ implies a certain 
adoration, and I don’t adore — I hate, hate and dread. Pious 
people pretend to abjure the things of this world, believe that 
the next will please them better, make a virtue of it. I, now 
— I’ve loved the things of this world, love them still, the 
more now that they’re out of my reach. My God, if I only 
knew that this life was going on forever as it was ten — 
twenty — even thirty years ago — though when one was so 
young one really had not sense enough to enjoy — that would 
be heaven ; but to go on as it is now! — I should feel like you 
1 — ^‘What shall I do? Where shall I go?’ One might kill 
oneself and be no nearer the end.” 

She paused for a moment, then went on : “And that’s not 
all ; there’s another thing I think of ; all the men I’ve been 
fool enough to refuse since I was left a widow ; always so 
sure that something better would turn up. And now — now 
• — what you, in your charming and refined language, would 
call, ‘a decayed gentlewoman!^ — ‘A decayed gentlewoman I’ 
Was there ever such an insensitive language ! Rose, now — 
Ah, here she is.” 

“Why, am I late T* Rose hesitated in the doorway, look- 
ing from one to another in that half-sullen, half-deprecating 
way of hers. 

“For once, no.” Mrs. Hoyland rose and picked up her 
bundle of letters, taking no further notice of her daughter 
than if she had been a servant. “I’m dining with the Morri- 
sons to-night, Charles. If you can wait you’ll be able to 
make sure of a taxi for me, and I can drop you at your club. 
It’s no good asking you to dine here. Rose has an egg, or 
something insipid of that sort.” 

Rose pulled ofif her long coat as her mother left the room, 
and, sitting down by the fire, stretched out her reddened 
hands to the blaze. Her mother had been right in saying 
that the white veil suited her. But that was not all ; there 
was more of poise and balance about her than Hoyland 
could have believed possible. 

“Well?” he said, kindly contemptuous, “and how goes 
the nursing?” 

“Pretty well — as well as it can under the circumstances.” 

“What circumstances ?” 


89 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

“Well,^ you know what mamma is. Nothing matters — ^ 
nothing, in comparison with her whims. She takes a sort of 
pleasure in keeping me, cutting into my time ; pretends to 
think that it doesn’t matter, that it’s nothing but a fad — oh, 
well, of course, a sort of husband-hunting. They’d have 
sacked me long ago, but I told them straight out how it is, 
and they make allowances. . . . She detests me, and yet’s 
jealous of me; can’t bear to see me interested in an3d;hing 
or anybody.” 

For a moment there was silence. Then Rose began again : 
‘‘She talks of my ‘insipid’ eggs, and yet there’s never any- 
thing else when she’s dining out — one egg, at that. Not that 
it matters ; it gives me a chance to go back for an hour or so, 
as I am doing to-night.” 

“What do you imagine that you’ll get out of it all?” 
inquired Hoyland brutally. 

Rose turned her face from the fire, and looked at him with 
an odd directness for her. “Nothing — nothing, I suppose. 
At least, not what you’d call anything, understand. . . . 
Charles, did you know that Dr. McCabe was back ?” 

“What put McCabe into your head ?” 

Hoyland blew out a cloud of smoke, and watched his sister 
through it, from under half-closed lids. 

“He was at the hospital this afternoon, with Mr. Hodson, 
our chief surgeon.” She was silent a moment or two, gazing 
into the fire. “He seems to have done great things; they 
were all of them talking about him.” 

“Oh — and I suppose you were glad to claim acquaintance 
with the hero?” 

“He didn’t see me. I was busy in the pantry.” 

Hoyland laughed. “Really! isn’t that rather like you, 
my dear sister ? ‘Busy in the pantry,’ while the love of your 
life is hob-nobbing with all sorts of big-wigs. But, all the 
same, I wouldn’t set your young affections upon McCabe, if 
I were you, my dear. He’s all very well in his way, but 
there are some dashed queer stories about him.” Hoyland’s 
tone of contempt was a return for the perfectly innocent 
oblivion in which McCabe had passed him that afternoon. 

The sound of a sharply-tanging electric bell, as though a 
finger were placed on the button and kept there, came from 
somewhere in the upper regions of the house, and Rose got 
up from her chair, almost stately in her plain white dress and 
flowing veil. “Sometimes it seems to me that the people 


90 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


who get themselves talked about are very far from being the 
worst. You and mamma are always hitting at Dr. McCabe, 
saying all sorts of vile — not only vile, but paltry — things 
about him, because he never thinks of himself, only — too 
much — far too much of others. But whatever he has done — 
whatever you may have against him — you, you of all people, 
to belittle him! — Oh, you think I don’t know, that I know 
nothing, see nothing — too stupid for words! But that day 
at Montpellier Square, the day of the sale. I heard you, 
when we were going downstairs — ‘Leila,* you said, ‘now 
you have seen her, Leila,* — you were talking of mamma ; of 
course I know you were. — But ‘Leila* — I remembered the 
name when she read it out of the paper that night just before 
the war began — I saw your face, out there on the balcony — 
I may be a fool, but I am not an innocent fool — how could 
I be? — and if I hear you talking against Dr. McCabe, who 
has at least done something — ^you, you who have never done 
anything but talk, in clubs and drawing-rooms — 1*11 tell 
people what you are; what you’ve done.** 

“And land your friend in prison for ten years or more. 
You’re a clever child. Rose. It’s people of just your sort of 
cleverness who are responsible for halT the mischief in the 
world — Half? Nine-tenths! If you’ll take my advice, 
you’ll answer that bell, and keep what intelligence you have 
upon the very few affairs it’s equal to.” 




PART II 





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CHAPTER I 

The end of August that same year saw Hoyland in 
Flanders. 

In less than two months after ho was back again in England, 
and five weeks of the interval had been spent in a base hos- 
pital ! “Three weeks of crowded glory !” he told himself bit- 
terly, turning his face to the wall in his bed at the Ascot hos- 
pital — ^Ascot, of all places ! — and cursing fate. The last Gold 
Cup Day there had been a girl in a primrose chiffon gown, 
and they had had supper together at the “Ritz” that evening, 
for the race had been a lucky one for him. He didn’t know 
why he remembered her, but he did, with a sort of rage. 

He had seen some darned silly farces in his life, but there 
had never been anything quite so silly and futile as that in 
which he had taken a sort of part. 

It had been as his mother said it would — everything had 
become impossible. There had been the choice — and by only 
a hair’s-breadth at that — between getting a commission or 
being dragged into the army by the scruff of his neck as a 
private; to eat, sleep, live, cheek-by-jowl with the sort of 
men with whom he would not willingly have sat in the same 
railway carriage. To Hoy land’s mind the working-class had 
no single virtue, save the necessary one of making its betters 
as comfortable as possible. Anything — anything was prefer- 
able to being driven to associate with such people. Partly 
through influence, partly by help of his knowledge of lan- 
guages — through the medium of the Inns of Court Officers’ 
Training Corps — he had got his commission. From the 
beginning his program had been quite clear in his own 
mind. He did not intend to fight. No man in the world had 
ever detested noise, dirt, discomfort and pain as he did ; and 
he was quite determined that he would have nothing to do 
with either of the four. Men said, “War’s a messy busi- 
ness,” and then proceeded to wallow in it. Well, let them ; 
that was all. Everything could be arranged. He would 
make himself indispensable to some brainless fool or other, 
and get on the Staff. 


93 


94 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Very steadily he tried to put away from him the remem- 
brance of how he had decided against the army, and how, by 
dint of some outward pressure, it had got him at last, sullen, 
reluctant as he was ; had forced him into a set way of dress, 
a set order of life; to that humiliating exposition of “Eyes 
front — Right about turn !” — 'the motions of a marionette — 
but it was all of no use ; he seemed made of memories. 

And then, after all this tomfoolery, three weeks ! Just on 
three weeks — not quite that. Three weeks spent in the midst 
of odious discomfort, noise, ugliness, filth — he — ^he — Charles 
Hoyland, who had never so much as soiled his hands, his 
beautifully formed, perfectly-manicured hands — such as no 
words could ever express ; three weeks during which he 
seemed to be shaken hither and thither, like some too-loosely- 
packed and wholly unconsidered parcel! 

And, somehow or other, beaten at the end of it — fooled, 
utterly fooled! Five weeks in hospital, then back home 
again. Another hospital — more chattering nurses — idiots 
of doctors! 

He had never fought, never even seen a German, apart 
from a few prisoners — had been allowed to keep to his reso- 
lution in that. But, all the same, he had been fooled; one 
arm gone from just below; the elbow and the other hand 
twisted and scarred to a grotesque shape which he could 
not bear to look at; a something perpetually humiliating; 
without glory, without renown. 

He wondered if he would not rather have lost a leg; hop- 
ping like those bird-like creatures whom he watched from his 
bed, essaying their first one-sided stej^ with so much gayety 
and laughter. 

Fooled, fooled ! It was odd how that legend of Sotteville- 
sur-Mer, along with the more personal memory of the boy 
with the rats, had followed him — the one thread of imagina- 
tion woven throughout an otherwise totally unimaginative 
life. In rare moments of childish indisposition it had re- 
turned to him: in the still rarer dreams which visited his 
manhood, the only dream he ever had was of that immense 
loneliness, that open space; so illimitable and yet pinching 
him with the idea of a trap-like boundary : that hand, darting — 
if one may use such a word in relation to anything so immense. 

Now, looking back at that three weeks in Flanders, with 
his brain a trifle weakened, dominated by that other memory, 
he realized that the hand had pretty nearly got him that 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


95 


time : he had only just struggled free, like a rabbit in a trap, 
leaving blood and flesh behind it; and, more — oh, much 
more horrible still — squealing. Yes, actually squealing. 

He had heard the squeal quite plainly, wondered at it. 
But though he was completely conscious at the time, it was 
only much later — when he was at Ascot, as a matter of fact 
— that the sudden realization that it was he who had given 
vent to that shrill, humiliatingly animal sound came to him. 

This was part of the thinking-back which occupied his 
convalestence, the days during which he lay brooding, brood- 
ing, fitting every moment of that eight weeks together as 
though they were to form a map upon which his whole life 
might depend ; or, rather, as though he were adding up an ac- 
count which he was determined that some one or other should 
pay, from which no single item must be omitted. All this 
while other men were amusing themselves with books and 
games, with all sorts of light-hearted, childish tricks: some 
really forgetting ; some determined to f o^et ; Hoyland alone 
determined not to forget, to see that some one suffered for 
all he had suffered. 

Not that there was any fear of him forgetting it: the 
whole thing went on etching itself out upon his brain, stroke 
by stroke ; he took a sort of bitter pride in the minute per- 
fection of it. 

That summer of nineteen-seventeen had been one of abnor- 
mal rainfall : twice the average amount had fallen round 
Ypres during the month of August. Hoyland, who had never 
gone out in the wet if he could help it — ^beyond the few steps 
necessary between a house or club and a waiting taxi — was 
perpetually wet through, morning, noon and night. It was 
bad enough in the open ; it was even worse when they were 
supposed to be in shelter and the shelter leaked, as it in- 
evitably did. If it happened that he was not actually wet 
with rain, he was reeking with damp and sweat. Whenever 
the sun did show itself, he steamed in it : his clothes smelt, 
his body smelt ; he was like an animal, he told himself with 
disgust ; for after the first ten days they were being pushed 
up and on with some force like an omnipotent policeman at 
the back of them — and the very sight of his own face re- 
volted him: the jaw so strangely heavy with its stubble. 

He had made sure of some sort of order; but the order 
was either too large or too small for him to realize its work- 
ing. The great offensive in conjunction with the French, 


96 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


between Ypres and Steenstraete, which was launched upon 
the last day in July, had left the ground in an indescribable 
condition : dead horses, fragments of equipments, over turned 
lorries, derelict aeroplanes, were rotting in the mud. 

He himself a mere speck amid it all. He — Charles Hoy- 
land, of all people! Nothing in the whole affair was 
stranger than its incongruities. Anyhow, it was all too 
damned silly, all about nothing. That was the one idea 
which beat through his brain, through all the discomfort and 
humiliation — the damned silly waste of life, time, effort : the 
feeling that if the thing was to be done at all it should be left 
to the people who were less educated, less highly civilized, 
and therefore less sensitive ! 

To add to everything else there was the supreme misery of 
never being alone; the lack of all decent privacy. Other 
men were always round him, elbowing him — ^talking, talking, 
talking; laughing, braying like asses. 

The whole way, crossing in a crowded steamer, packed 
tight in the stifling trains, on foot, marching — plowing, 
rather, through a sea of mud, never knowing for one moment 
what one might put one’s foot into — there was always the 
same noisy, stinking crowd. 

And yet, at the same time there was that old sense of 
emptiness : of an immense open space as unaffected by the 
crawling masses as a summer sky by an ant-heap: with the 
aeroplanes flying in front of it, never so much as brushing 
its gray indifference. 

The end of their last day’s march found them at a farm 
five miles from the front, with the roar of big guns beating 
so continuously upon their ears that there was the feel- 
ing of having to stop and listen to be sure one really 
heard, was not the victim of some overpowering blood- 
pressure. 

The rain had ceased and it was a baking hot day, but only 
the crust of the swampy ground was hardened, and it had 
been bad going : the sun fierce overhead, flies everywhere, on 
one’s eyes and lips. The rooms in the farmhouse — the 
parlor quite square like a box, banked with air that one 
could cut with a knife, stained and flaked whitewash, flies, 
and worse; a look of indescribable squalor and filth — had 
been set apart for the officers, while the men were accom- 
modated in the barns and outhouses. 

Lying in his bed at the Ascot hospital, Hoyland went over 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


97 


and over again every inch of that parlor : the scratched var- 
nish of the sideboard; the torn green rep of the sofa, one 
leg gone, supported upon an empty Peek, Frean biscuit-box. 
The flypapers festooned across and across the ceiling, so 
thick with flies that they could not hold any more ; the cracks 
and stains on the wall — one in particular which ran into a 
rough map of Italy and looked and smelt like beer ; the black 
bottle set in a welter of tallow, with a fragment of candle 
still in the top of it ; the photo of a wedding-group, with the 
glass starred across and across it; the funeral-cards in 
frames; the writings upon the walls — obscene French and 
outspoken English references to the inevitable co-inhabi- 
tants of the place; while precisely in front of the window 
was a sodden manure-heap, stinking to heaven. 

There was one old woman left at the farm, and she waited 
upon the officers without a word, dour and brooding, as well 
she might be, with her three sons killed at the front and her 
husband struck by a fragment of stray shell while milking 
the cow in their own paddock close against the house. 

She had buried her man ; but the beast had been too much 
for her, and still lay in the open. 

“What did he want to milk for while they were shelling 
the place?” inquired one of Hoyland’s fellow-officers. 

“What other time was there?” answered the old woman, 
indifferently. 

“Well, they're further away now,” said the Major. “No 
chance of that sort of thing happening again.” 

He meant to be consoling, but the old woman treated him 
to a glance of contempt, protruding her under-lip. How 
young he was, not to know that the mere fact of having lost 
everything constitutes more of safety than any woman can 
ever want. As to the shells, there was no knowing — shells 
might drop anywhere and at any moment; they were as 
ubiquitous as le bon Dieu Himself. 

Hoyland was allotted a tiny sleeping-room in company 
with another subaltern of the name of Tiddums — a creature 
as ridiculous as his name, always laughing, with an air of 
having been thrown together anyhow and then over-ripened : 
loose lips, silly rabbit eyes, great red hands. 

Hoyland lay down on his blanket, with his overcoat under 
his head, but he couldn't sleep. Tiddums kept him awake, 
first with his silly tales, then with his snoring. A rat frol- 
icked across his body in the moonlight, but he never so 


98 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

much as stirred. A man! A man! ‘^Noble in reason, 
infinite in faculty.’’ Ye gods! 

There was only one tiny window, and though they had 
broken away the glass the door was so placed that no draught 
was possible. Hoyland closed his eyes, and something dropped 
from the ceiling on to his face, ran down the neck of his shirt. 

He got up at this, gathered a few of his most precious 
possessions together — for he trusted no one — and went out 
into the moonlight. At one side of the house was what re- 
mained of the cow, its stiff legs in the air; at the other the 
manure-heap. A few skeletons of trees raised their tortured 
arms towards the imperturbable heavens : the roar of guns 
was almost unceasing, beating heavily a^inst the ear-drums. 

There was an open shed against one side of the house, and 
a great heap of loose straw in it. Hoyland stuck his belong- 
ings — revolver, wallet of papers, flask of brandy, slabs of 
chocolate done up in silver paper — deep into the straw, and 
lay down, spreading his coat over his feet. 

The air was chilly, but without any freshness ; the whole 
scene ugly in a way which even the moonlight was unable to 
redeem. 

If he could have believed that there was a God, he would 
have cursed Him. 

Insects moved with a ticking sound amid the straw ; there 
were the heavier movements, pushing and rustling, of rats. 
Sleep seemed out of the question ; that asinine Tiddums had 
been laughing at dinner-time over the story of a man who 
awoke to find his nose being gnawed by a rat. 

But for all that a heavy oblivion was dropping over Hoy- 
land when there came a singing sound, like a wind among 
telegraph-wires, the tearing crash of a shell. 

Hoyland heard some order regarding the cellars shouted 
from the house. A few men appeared, running, stumbling 
in disordered array across the yard: another shell fell, and 
they dropped upon their hands and knees, with their faces 
close against the ground, like Mussulmans at prayer; their 
one thought to protect their heads and stomachs. 

There was another crash, and then another, so quick that 
they ran into each other; it was clear that more than one 
gun had got them. 

Hoyland was half up, drawing back his two hands from 
out of the straw, clasping his possessions, when, there was a 
deafening roar, a blinding flash — not outside him, as the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


99 


others had been, but inside him, through him, as it seemed. 

A trap — a trap ! The boy at Sotteville-sur-Mer, and his 
corn-measure with its heavy iron edge — They had got him 
somehow or other, he thought, that squeal ringing in his 
ears. 

Something warm was running down his face and into his 
eyes. He couldn’t raise his hands to wipe it away, but he 
did not realize in what fashion they were being held until a 
sergeant came, and, with the help of another man, raised the 
heavy beam which had pinned them down: nipping him 
there, like — well, just like a rat in a trap. 

They took him down into the cellar, and some one tore off 
the tail of a shirt to tie up his hands. By the light of one 
lantern he saw that Tiddums was lying on the clay floor, face 
upwards, still grinning, but quite dead. There was another 
man, with both legs off. The doctor and orderlies were 
busy : no one took much notice of Hoyland, because it seemed 
pretty obvious that he was not going to die. 

The cellars were large, larger than the house — or so it 
appeared in that narrow circle of light. It seemed as though 
pretty well all the men must be there, packed tight as herrings 
in a barrel ; but still a shuffling step went to and fro upon the 
boards above them : the old woman, some one said, clearing 
up the mess. 

They stayed together for an hour or so ; some of the men 
snoring, propped up against each other or against the wall. 
After the shelling ceased, as suddenly as it had begun, they 
went back to their own quarters, and some one helped Hoy- 
land up into the open air. 

Directly the dawn broke a cart was made ready, the wound- 
ed men put in it, and sent back to the nearest field-ambulance. 

The man with both legs gone had died in the night ; but 
there were two other men with their lower limbs badly shat- 
tered, and one with a splinter-wound in his chest. They lay 
in the bottom of the cart, and the others sat round the edge. 
Hoyland was unable to hold on because of his hands ; but one 
of the reclining men gripped his feet to keep him steady as 
they jolted through the ruts. It was raining all the way ; a 
cold sheet of rain which beat straight into their faces. 

The driver sat with rounded shoulders, a sack over his 
back ; one horse was very lame, and, going out of step with 
its fellows, aggravated the jolting. 

Half way to the ambulance the man who w-as wounded in 


100 THE LITTLE SOUL 

the chest began to vomit blood, and died before they got 
there. 

Hoyland sat with both bandaged hands upon his knees 
and stared in front of him. There was no sensation of any 
sort in them, and he had a sort of feeling as though they 
were not his. 

A small wound in his head, which the medical officer had 
not found time to trouble over, bled persistently, in a half- 
hearted way. When the blood trickled into his eyes the man 
next to him, who had lost an arm, raised his remaining hand 
and wiped it away with a remnant of oily rag. 

He was only a private, but his sense of sublime content- 
ment had obliterated all sense of difference. 

“Blighty for me,” he said, with a grin. “An’ only me left 
arm, too — one in the eye for them ! Gawd, but won’t I be 
glad ter see the ruddy old Road again !” 

Later on he explained: “The Old Kent Road. I s’pose 
yer know that. Somefing like life goin’ on there, ain’t 
there — ?” he hesitated, and added “sir” as an after-thought, 
sucking at the corner of his rag, screwing up his eyes, stick- 
ing out the tip of his tongue, and deftly flicking away a 
trickle of blood from the corner of Hoyland’s left eye. 

Lying in the Ascot hospital, Hoyland remembered this 
man, his ugly little Cockney face, without gratitude, without 
even amusement: there was no saving grace in any single 
one of his memories of that time. 


CHAPTER II 

The wound in Hoyland’s head was more serious than 
could have been thought, and kept him back. The nurses 
made allowances for him upon the strength of this, put up 
with his black silences, his savage cynicism. But for all that 
they were continually reminding him how much more lightly 
he had got off than so many men ; while one and all were 
glad to see the last of him. “He’s more like a Boche than 
an Englishman,” that is what they said : and so he was, in 
his dogged self-insistence, his ruthless disregard for his 
fellow-patients, nurses, orderlies. 

His mother had died while he was in hospital in Flanders : 
but he had not heard the news until Rose came down to 
Ascot to tell him of it. She had taken an overdose of some 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


101 


sleeping-draught — whether by accident or design no one 
could say ; but the assurance people were still fighting the 
case. 

‘‘Anyhow, it doesn’t seem as though we were likely to get 
much out of it,” said Rose, looking dull and heavy in her 
mourning — a Martha careful and troubled. 

“What money will there be ?” 

“Nothing. There was no chance of anything coming 
from Russia, and she knew it ; that’s what makes me think — • 
Well, anyhow, there’s practically nothing. The little Papa 
left went long ago ; but of course you know that.” 

“Is there nothing worth selling?” 

“Very little. The furniture was already gone, as you 
ought to know.” ^ Rose spoke without acrimony, any show 
of vindictive feeling. Charles was “like that,” just as her 
mother had been. There was no altering it. It was really 
a very good thing to be selfish : she thought of it as a virtue, 
which,' like so many others, she found impossible of attain- 
ment in her own person, because she was always forgetting, 
giving herself away. “She left me her jewelry and furs, 
and things like that,” she went on, “and made me responsible 
for Maisie. Of course that’s why she did it. She knew that 
the money from them would be nothing to Maisie, and that 
I should always feel it up to me to do things for her. I 
have been thinking: if we could all three join together in 
your flat in the Temple, Charles — after all, there would have 
been the furniture, if you hadn’t sold it, you know — or take 
a little cottage, I could do all the work, and we could live 
upon very little — really very little.” 

“And where’s that very little to come from, may I ask ?” 
Hoyland was sitting up in bed, with a bandage still round 
his head. His swathed* hands lay out on the counterpane 
in front of him. Rose thought, “How clean he looks 1” 
But it was not that which she really felt ; rather the some- 
thing repellent in an invalid — a bereaved and maimed person 
— ^being so hardly self-sufficient. She had come prepared 
to sympathize, with her unerring sense of what was the 
right, the conventional thing. She now realized that her 
brother was as he always had been. Still Charles, and not 
that strangely fabulous creature, “the wounded soldier,” 
as he was expected to be, half-angel and half-child. 

She had wondered at the men in the wards where she had 
worked, at their light-hearted boyishness ; lost sight of the 


102 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


fact that they were jolly then because it was their nature 
to be jolly; as it was her brother’s nature to be all sorts of 
other things — wonderful things, but certainly without 
jollity. 

“I’ve raised every farthing I could get hold of, on the 
strength of my mother’s property,” went on Hoyland. “It 
was settled on me; it seemed all right — Who could have 
thought of those damned Russians ratting like that? 
Directly I am out of this, I shall have my creditors round 
me like a swarm of bees. You and Maisie are two perfectly 
sound young women, and yet you can actually propose that 
— hampered as I am, in every sort of way — I should take 
upon myself the burden of your upkeep?” 

“I didn’t mean that! I thought that we might live and 
work together.” 

“Then, my dear, put the thought out of your head, once 
and for all. Imagine — if you can imagine anything — ^that 
you and Maisie are foundlings, sans famille. If every one 
were brought up like that, there would be an end of half 
the trouble and worry there is in the world. Get yourselves 
husbands if you can; but otherwise go your own way. I 
shall have as much as I can do, and more, to scratch out 
some sort of life for myself ; and as long as people believe 
you to be without relations, they’ll be much more likely to 
help you. There’s one golden rule in life — if only you could 
assimilate it — dispense with all sentiment in yourself, but 
learn to count upon it and use it in others. . . . And now, 
my dear Rose, I think that is all — unfortunately I’m not in 
the position to give you anything excepting advice, but 
you’re welcome to that.” 

Rose had risen, stood looking down upon him. “And 
yet you expect me to be responsible for, look after Maisie?” 

“Because you’ve been fool enough to get people into that 
sort of habit.” 

“You won’t help us?” 

“I’ve told you once, I can’t help you. Good God! girl, 
are you a fool, not to see how obvious it is that I can’t help 
any one?” 

“There are ways. ... Or stand by us?” 

“No! Nor see anything of you. It’s a case of sinking 
or swimming for oneself. I’ve sacrificed enough for the 
cause of humanity without having two girls who are per- 
fectly well able to support themselves hanging round my 


THE LITTLE SOUL 103 

neck. It’s no time for sentimentality; we’re down to the 
bedrock of hard fact.” 

How true that was for his sisters, Hoyland made no effort 
to discover — for months and months he saw nothing of 
them, heard nothing of them; Rose must have had grit 
enough to take him at his word — ^but for himself it was true 
enough, that was certain: ‘"rocky” and “bare” were the 
very words. 

His creditors troubled him but little: they were, for the 
most part, shady customers, and his maimed condition cast a 
protective glamour over him, camouflaged as the gallant 
defender of his country. 

But he had fallen with his mother’s fortune, which had 
been considerable, and was obliged to give up his chambers 
in the Temple. For he had never troubled to form any 
sort of legal connection, and could not hope to start making 
a living — what he would have called “a comfortable living” 
— from his profession. His health was still bad, a deadly 
feeling of weariness and inertia possessed him; a sense of 
nausea, as though he were not digesting life. His temper, 
which had been even, from his very insensitiveness, was 
now uncertain, and it took very little to throw him into a 
state of savage exasperation. 

After he was fitted with an artificial right hand, while his 
left hand was patched up, in a fashion which gave the doc- 
tors some pride, they suggested a country life: he must go 
slowly because of that wound in the head, which at times 
gave him excruciating pain in one eye. 

“You might get some sort of job on the land : an agency 
business, or something of that sort,” was what they sug- 
gested. 

But he did not even trouble to answer them. What did 
they expect him to do on the land ? — cart manure ? 

He felt that he would rather die than go and bury himself 
in the country; and yet the noise of London, the uncivil, 
pushing crowds drove him half mad. 

Life in London seemed to be cut in two : there were the 
people who could afford to take taxis, and the people who 
couldn’t. He was one of the latter now, and there are no 
words for the infinite variety of ways in which it changed 
everything. 

And yet he clung to it. He took a room in a small private 
hotel, which upon closer acquaintance degenerated into a 


104 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


boarding-house, where one must be punctually in to all 
meals or else one got nothing to eat. And such meals I The 
mere sodden savaging of cheap, insufficient food, eaten arnid 
indescribable young men who wished to be friendly with him, 
and old ladies who kept their medicine-bottles in front of 
their own particular places at table. 

When he plunged into his old Soho haunts, so reminiscent 
of McCabe, every one he met said, “Hullo, Hoyland ! Seen 
anything of the Doc, eh?” 

That stratum of society was plainly more disreputable 
than it had been. There were many more avid, painted 
women, any amount of them not yet out of their teens; 
but even they were preferable to the brazen and brainless 
horde of nouveaux riches among whom Lady Carfax shone 
like a star. 

He had only seen Clare Whitman once since Leila^s death ; 
and then she had given him a glance of furious scorn, and 
drawn her skirts away from him. What fools women were : 
always running up bills and never expecting to pay them, 
that sort, at any rate, had no right to blame any one for the 
risks they ran. 

He saw her again at the “Scarlet Paint-Pot” one night 
soon after he left Ascot. She recognized him the moment 
she entered the room, where he was sitting with a glass of 
brandy in front of him — he had a sort of idea that she had 
heard what had happened, was looking out for him — and 
chose a table exactly opposite to his. There were two men 
in attendance : one sat next to her, the other she made move 
to one side, so that she had an unimpaired view of Hoyland. 
And she never took her eyes off him ; when she saw the 
clumsy movements he made with his hands, lighting his 
cigarette, for instance, she laughed at him, mockingly. 

She was much more highly-colored than she had been, 
and her face was plastered with white powder, her full figure 
shown to the uttermost limit of decency by her low dress.- 

“A harridan!” he said to himself, and smiled at her^ 
bitterly determined not to be beaten. 

It seemed, indeed, as though each was equally deter- 
mined upon that head. He called the head waiter, and 
made some remark on the sort of people they had there: 
the man spoke to her, and she laughed again with an insolent 
fleer at Hoyland: “Why the blazes didn’t he leave the 
devil to pull his own chestnuts out of the fire ?” she asked. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


105 


At last her two friends prevailed upon her to leave. 
‘Toor devil’s been wounded an’ all,” they said; Hoyland 
hprd, saw them, bending towards her, clumsily trying to 
divert he;* attention. 

As she passed she stopped at his side. *‘You needn’t 
think that evens up things” — she gave a scornful gesture 
right and left, towards his hands — ‘‘there’s more to come. 
. . . Good God, if I could see you rot, piece by piece. I’d be 
happy. But thafs something to go on with : that’s cheered 
me.” She shot out one hand and flicked his; then moved 
on. 

Friedland still held his seances; eternally on the move, 
for the police were keen upon the track of all spiritualistic 
frauds, which played upon the feelings of the bereaved: 
but Friedland had grown sanctimonious ; his meetings were 
thronged by woe-begone people in black; the whole affair 
flat and dull as the rest of the world. It was the same every- 
where; even in the midst of the wildest, most outrageous 
revels, the revelers dropped to a sudden state of blank 
depression, sat staring in front of them, as though wondering 
why they were there, what they were doing. 

The gayety was hysterical. “All flesh is grass,” lamented 
one lugubrious toper at a night-club, sitting with his legs 
stretched out straight in front of him, his hat at the back 
of his head, both hands deep in his trouser-pockets, staring 
vacantly in front of him. “All flesh but grass.” 

“You’re right there, old cock!” chimed in another; “and 
I’m Nebuchadnezzar” — ^he nipped his neighbor’s bare, pow- 
dered shoulder between his teeth — -“and darned sweet grass, 
too.” 

“Ah ! you beast, you I” 

“All flesh but grass — ” 

“Sprung from some darned pretty sowings of wild-oats, 
too — Ah, well! there’s no knowing; only it’s a damned 
silly thing to say that a man reaps what he sows, when he 
sows wild-oats and reaps grass, eh, old chap?” 

“It’s all very fine; this war now,” said the man in the 
hat, “talking o* grass, dust-ter-dust sorter lay, don’t you 
know; but all the same, per-per-perfectly shocking when a 
Johnny comes ter think of it. All those fine young fellows, 
by Jove!” 

There was the sound of tears in his voice, and a woman 
began to weep noisily, hunting all over her scanty costume 


106 THE LITTLE SOUL 

for a pocket-handkerchief. ‘Them there darling boys !” she 
said. 

It was hopeless: the only people who systematically 
amused themselves — apart from mere girls and boys — were 
the brainless and heartless, the vulgar of soul. The re- 
mainder were scarcely ever to be seen in public, and if they 
were, they were dressed in the fashion of three seasons 
before. 

Hoyland’s resources, both in patience and funds, were 
getting very low during the first week in March ; while that 
feeling of having been defrauded, in every sort of way de- 
frauded, which had been growing more and more acute 
ever since the first days of the war — had reached its zenith 
during the past winter, with no fire in his bedroom, nothing, 
nothing which made life bearable, let alone pleasant — when, 
turning the corner from Pall Mall into St. James’ Street, he 
met a man whom, he used to know at Oxford, and had since 
encountered at occasional long intervals only. 

It had always been Ferguson who sought him out, been 
proud of his acquaintance, deferred to him in every sort of 
way ; and Hoyland had got to a state when he was glad of 
any acquaintances of this sort. Besides, Ferguson himself 
was successful enough — ^head of one of the newer colleges in 
the north of England: though, like so many men, he had 
never succeeded in the way he had wished to succeed, which 
was as a man of the world, well-dressed, sure of himself, 
somewhat of a dog, such as he believed Hoyland to be. 

Moving much faster than his friend, overtaking him, 
catching at his arm — with an air of skimming haste about his 
very coat-tails, even when adapting himself to his com- 
panion’s more leisurely pace — ^he moved along at his side, 
glancing quickly from side to side, to see whether the pass- 
ers-by were noticing him and his companion ; for Hoyland 
still retained that well-dressed air of being irreproachably 
“some one.” 

It was difficult, in the face of all this, to realize that it was 
really Ferguson himself who was “some one whose name 
was well known as an authority upon Greek philosophy, 
who had attained to the very highest classical honors, was 
venerated and feared by an immense number of young men 
as some one aloof from all human needs and weaknesses ; 
with a very well-known and secure place of his own in 
the world, without babbling and bounding like a mario- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


107 


nette upon the edge of Charles Hoyland’s dubious domain. 

“Hoy land, by all that’s holy ! The very person I wanted 
to see. Let’s go and have some lunch together. What do 
you say to the ‘Carlton,’ eh? There’s something I really 
want to ask you about, if it won’t bore you too awfully, get 
your advice. I’m looking for a tutor for the son of some 
old friends of mine ; more social — teach a young fellow his 
way about — than scholastic sort of thing, you know.” 

The “Carlton” was a great extravagance, a great going- 
the-pace, he felt as he drew Hoyland inside the door ; and 
again, as he chose a wine from the list quite wildly, because 
it seemed very expensive and the name was attractive, with 
a classical flavor. 

Some people he knew wanted a tutor for a boy of eighteen, 
delicate, and in some ways backward, who needed prepara- 
tion for Cambridge. He, Ferguson, had promised to help, 
really came up to town for the purpose. Owed them a good 
deal, capital people and all that. 

He was manifestly and benevolently concerned; but still 
wishful to give the impression that there might be some- 
thing like an intrigue, a chorus-girl, say, at the back of the 
whole thing, and this tutor business with the visit to London 
a mere excuse for a suh rosa adventure. A schoolmaster 
to the depths of his soul, very easily shocked, intensely 
conventional, his one idea was to dissemble the fact. 

With this end in view he made an effort to slide away from 
the business in hand, turned to fatuous remarks upon some 
of the women seated at the other tables, then jerked back 
again as though by an afterthought. 

“I imagined that you might be able to tell me of somebody ; 
you are always so very much in the swim. The boy’s in- 
telligent enough in a way, quite well grounded, classics 
above the average I should say — though he’s had very little 
chance. But it isn’t that so much; he knows nothing of 
the world, less than nothing, living in the depths of the 
country — ” 

“Where?” 

“The Peak district — Derbyshire — lovely country ; but 
that won’t help him, with women, wine, every sort of temp- 
tation and delight to be taken into consideration. It would 
be criminal to let such a boy loose in a University under the 
conditions. ... I say, Hoyland, do you see that girl in green 
there ? No, no ! a little more to your left. ’Pon my soul, 


108 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


she’s never taken her eyes off me since we sat down — me, 
mind you, my dear fellow ! If she keeps on like that I 
shall . . . Look here, Hoyland, I shall wink, positively I 
shall wink at her.” 

“That girl happens to be the Dowager Lady Hesketh; 
fifty if she’s a day, and blind as a bat. She stares like that 
because her eyes are so stiffly set round with enamel that 
she scarcely dares to so much as blink.” 

“Ah, well, one never knows.” Ferguson averted his gaze, 
a little dismayed, blushing, while the other man’s half-smiling 
stare remained indelibly fixed upon the gayly-tinted visage 
of the historic hussy in green. “Ladies get themselves up 
so wonderfully, especially in town. I remember my dear 
father always used to say : ‘Women pull up their stockings 
tighter when they come to London.’ Now, about this affair 
of the tutor ; it’s a shame to bore you over it, but I promised 
I’d do all I could. You know the sort of man I want — a 
scholar and a gentleman, and all that.” 

“What about myself?” 

Ferguson laid down his knife and fork and stared. “You 
— ^you — my dear chap! — But of course you’re joking.” 

“Ah, well, you know my record at Oxford. I suppose 
that ought to satisfy them — or is it the second attribute 
you’re in doubt about?” 

“My dear fellow, what an idea! I was simply amazed. 
It seemed too good to be true. Of course ! What a chance 
for the poor dear Claytons. They would be indeed fortunate 
if they got you. The only thing I’m afraid of is that you’d 
be bored to death. Delightful country, gentlefolk and all 
that — ^but after this!” He waved a vague hand. “Really, 
really — recherche meals of this sort, you know; surround- 
ings, company — ” 

“Well, I suppose you’re paying for it,” responded Hoy- 
land, rather grimly. “If you’re not, I don’t know who the 
devil is, that’s all. Look here, Ferguson, those damned 
doctors say that I must go into the country. The war’s 
knocked me out ; then my mother’s death — ” 

“My dear fellow, I am sorry ! I had no idea — ” 

“Neither had I.” Holland’s mouth twisted into a wry 
smile at the other’s bewildered face. “Anyhow, if these 
people you speak of are willing to offer me a decent 
screw — ” 

“Oh, I think they’d pay, are prepared to pay; and of 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


109 


course I shall tell them what a chance this will be. A chance 
in a thousand, if only you don’t change your mind! ... A 
man like you, who' has seen service and all that, moved in 
the very highest circles ; if there ever was any man capable 
of teaching Anthony Clayton something of the ways of the 
world we live in, my dear fellow, I’m sure . . Ferguson 
hesitated, beaming; not because there was any doubt at 
the back of his mind, the slightest hint of satire, but simply 
because his delight, his admiration, his sense of self-con- 
gratulation was for the moment beyond all words. 

They talked for a while longer, but now Ferguson felt that 
his duty was indeed accomplished, and that he might, with a 
clear conscience, revert to subjects which were more con- 
vivially suited to the atmosphere of the wild, wicked and 
altogether delightful atmosphere of the Metropolis. 

Only as they parted upon the steps of Hoyland’s club 
was the Derbyshire affair reverted to. 

‘T shall write to the Claytons at once — ^it’s wonderful, 
really wonderful to think of. I shall make a point of telling 
them what a chance it is for them, and of course you’ll hear 
at once.” 

‘^Make it very clear about the screw, Ferguson.” 

“Of course, of course ! They must understand that they 
can’t have the best — the very best, in my opinion, my dear 
chap — without paying for it.” 


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CHAPTER I 


As Hoy land got out of the train at Peak Forest Station a 
scurry of sleet was cutting through the air : the sun, which 
had been shining throughout most of his journey, had dis- 
appeared behind a hill, and the ugly gray stone houses, the 
disfiguring eruption of German prisoners’ huts, the hill-side 
scarred with quarries, the bleak, bare uplands, inspired him 
with a sense of fierce contempt, mingled with a certain satis- 
faction. For, after all, the whole scene was in keeping with 
his mood, his expectations, with that death-in-life to which 
he had not resigned but committed himself. 

There was a groom waiting for him, with a high yellow 
dog-cart and rough-coated bay mare. When the uncouth 
fellow put one hand to his elbow to help him in, he could 
have struck him for his officiousness : a common sort of 
servant, belonging to common sort of people — one always 
knew the one by the other. Oh, well, what could one expect ? 
After all, Ferguson had told him something of what they 
were: manufacturing people, who had made money, taken 
to farming as a possible road to The County. The fact that 
Ferguson had introduced a sort of veneration, if not awe, 
into his description had nothing to do with the matter ; after 
all, what did people like that know of the world as he, 
Hoyland, knew it? 

“Miss Diana sent an extra coat, please, sir. She thought 
that, turning so cold an’ all — ” 

But Hoyland did not hear what Miss Diana thought, 
trouble to wonder who Miss Diana might be. He had 
turned up the collar of his own coat, sunk down within it in 
a way which Leila Gavin would have realized meant trouble 
for some one or other. 

The mare hesitated, clumsy, then bounded forward under 
the whip. As the trap swayed, Hoyland knocked the elbow 
of his left arm, with its maimed hand, against the rail of the 
cart, while the effect of exquisite agony was augmented by 
that sense of futile rage which always came to him with any 
physical suffering. 


114 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Though he said nothing, only hunched himself deeper into 
his coat, the groom felt his cheek burn. He had opened his 
lips to utter some word of apology, concern, but he closed 
them again, all his sympathy dried up, as it was wont to do 
with pretty well every one with whom Hoyland came in 
contact. How often other injured men had glanced up at 
him with feelings of friendship, fellowship; then looked 
away again, conscious of a sort of shame at their own warm 
humanity, a sense of having needlessly exposed themselves, 
given themselves away. 

“That there tutor, or whatever ’e call ’isself !’’ cried the 
groom, later on, at tea in the kitchen. “Well, I’m danged 
if I ain’t glad as ’ow it’s Maister Anthony an’ not I, as ’as 
ter do with ’im, that’s all !” 

The road wound up and up. For a long while it was 
impossible, with one sluggish horse, tO' get beyond a walk. 
Then, suddenly, the sun came out. They were on a fairly 
flat road, running with a bold sweep along the heights, and, 
half-turning, Hoyland glanced back the way they had come. 

The ugly township — ^there was no other word for it, neither 
town nor village, dull and raw as any abomination of the 
back-blocks — had disappeared round an elbow of the hill. 
The hill ! — why, it was nothing but hills banked up in infinite 
shades of green, brown and blue, against the wide sweep of 
sky with its firmly rounded masses of cumulus cloud: 
such an immensity of sky that it was overwhelming even 
now, in its shining white-and-blue — what it could look like, 
storm-wracked and thunder-piled Hoyland had yet to dis- 
cover — smiling and yet bending its brows, at one and the 
same moment: benignant and awful as the old Jehovah. 

Almost immediately below them, running at right angles 
to the way which they had come, lay one of the deep Derby- 
shire dales, its steep sides buttressed with sheer walls of 
rocks, which, breaking away in places, had gathered into 
rough terraces, laced over with the fine, airy green of young 
birches. 

Eastward, in every direction, so far as the eye could reach, 
were more such dales ; the nearer cutting dark gashes in the 
hill-side, the further showing in faint lines of a deeper blue, 
widening here and there to pools of shadow. 

Far away, immediately below them, Hoyland could trace 
the glint of water: alongside the road stood a row of 
stunted Scotch firs, turned all one way, bent by the wind 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


115 


of centuries, their red stems gleaming with rain, their velvety 
hoods ‘folded close around them, flattened out at their 
backs. , . 

Here the road ran at a steady level along the hill-side, and 
throwing up her head, the mare gave a sudden leap forward. 
Her hoofs splashed and pounded on the muddy road, the trap 
lurched as she shied sideways at the blue puddles. Her 
rough coat shone with gleams of russet and gold ; it seemed 
as though she were a different creature here on the heights ; 
wildly exhilarated, as horses so often are, by the rush of 
wind, the stir of trees. 

“There, there now ! Woa-oa-o ! Steady, old girl, steady, 
Flo!” The driver sawed at her mouth. “Steady, now!” 
— As a dab of mud struck Hoyland in the face he drew 
out his handkerchief to wipe it away. “I’m sorry, sir, 
but the mud’s some’ut chronic hereabouts, that gritty I 
You’ll excuse me, sir, but — ” 

“Don’t you think that you might try keeping your horse 
in hand, for a change?” broke in Hoyland, with an air of 
icy exasperation; upon which the man relapsed into sulky 
silence. It was none of his business to tell the stranger that, 
owing to some minute fragments of spar in the mud, there 
was a slight cut upon his face, from which a tiny trickle of 
blood oozed, in a zigzag line, down one cheek. 

“Tutor!” he thought angrily. “A pretty sort o’ tutor!” 
But, all the same, he gathered the mare to a more sedate 
pace, avoided the puddles. 

After a while the open spaces were left behind, and the 
trees gathered thick at either side, the firs — mingled with 
hornbeam — ^growing more straightly and to some height; 
enfolding the road — for the sun was already low at the far 
side of the hill — in a wash of cold gray shadow. 

As the way divided into four, and they turned sharply to 
the left, they emerged into yet another world. 

Still so high that the clear air caught at Hoyland’s London 
lungs like a draught of over-strong wine, the dour, rocky 
aspect had changed to something softer. The hills, with 
their white winding roads like ribbons, showed curves in 
the place of angles — curve upon curve, fold upon fold, wrap- 
ping themselves around the plain : never very flat, as though 
nature were forever astir beneath her green coverlet, but 
still a plain, with a far-distant spire, the smoky blur of some 
little town, the silvery thread of a river. 


116 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Tucked away among the surrounding hillsides were pros- 
perous farms, with pointed ricks and buildings ; more sedate 
and heavily-foliaged trees — elms and oaks. The hard 
masses of cloud which they had left behind them at the 
eastern side of the hill, the uniform blackish shade of the 
avenue, were replaced by a glowing haze of fine incan- 
descent gold, that atmosphere of complete well-being and 
peace which comes with the end of the afternoon in country 
places, when it is yet an hour or more to actual evening; 
while the sunshine still lay so bright upon the white road 
that the starry celandines upon either bank were wide open 
amid their glossy leaves, shining with an almost morning 
air; the birds sang in the occasional thorn-bushes which, 
deep madder and sparse young green, broke the lines of 
rough gray stone walls, patched in yellow lichen. 

Even Hoyland, though grudgingly enough, accorded the 
scene a certain meed of praise. He would have given any- 
thing for some sun-steeped southern town: a narrow street 
with small luxurious shops, pretty curios, gleaming, useless 
trifles ; crowds of well-dressed people ; high heels, painted 
faces ’neath delicate silken sunshades; casinoes, theaters, a 
plage with its cosmopolitan throng ; and yet he acknowledged 
that there were plenty of people who might find this place 
beautiful, in its dull way. Well, at any rate, it was better 
than that appalling station town, and this at least was some 
comfort. 

*‘Yon’s Ox Lee.” The driver pointed with his whip; 
and in another moment or so the trap had turned through 
an ugly wooden gate, badly in need of a coat of paint, and up 
a long, straight drive at the end of which stood a three- 
storied gray house, fronting squarely down it. 

There was nothing that could be called a park — ^just 
fields, and, in one place, an acre or so of rank turnips abut- 
ting right on to the drive itself, cut from out of the pasture 
and fenced, with hurdle-pens of sheep : then a sunk-fence and 
a garden, with rough lawns, the gleam of daffodils amid the 
grass — though the flower-beds seemed empty — and an array 
of chicken-coops, over one of which bent a female figure, in 
a rough, earth-colored coat with an old brown hat, like a 
strawberry-punnet, pulled tight down over its head, fea- 
tureless and formless as a scarecrow and yet in some way, 
eloquent of youth. 

There was a deep porch to the house, with gardening-tools 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


117 


stacked at one side of it, leaning against a stone bench : upon 
the opposite bench were onions laid out to dry upon a piece 
of sacking. 

The mare, unexhilarated by the prospect of home, had 
dropped into her former state of apathy, and the groom, 
looping the reins to the rail of the splashboard, left her un- 
attended while he helped the servant — an elderly capless 
female — with the luggage. 

The inside of the house seemed better than the outside ; 
there was a large fire burning in the hall, and, kicking aside 
the dogs, which, after a thorough investigation of the 
stranger, had returned to their sleep in front of it, Hoyland 
stood with his back to the blaze, looking about him. 

The windows were rather high in the wall, with pointed 
tops ; the walls rough-cast and color-washed, a deep cream. 
There was a preposterous hat-rack with mirrors, a roll-topped 
desk piled with papers and account-books, a shabby velvet- 
covered couch which looked as though it had once formed 
part of a “suite,” and some good, high-backed, dark-oak 
chairs with cane seats. 

The whole furnishing of the place showed a strange min- 
gling of tastes and periods, while the hall itself struck Hoy- 
land as being a converted farmhouse kitchen. There were, 
indeed, steel hooks in the whitewashed beams which must 
have been intended for sides of bacon, while the staircase 
which led out of it was steep and narrow, with a plain oak rail. 

Glancing nearer, a pair of bright eyes caught his attention, 
fixing him suspiciously from over the top of a basket which 
stood close to the side of the hearth. Attempting a closer 
inspection, he was greeted with growls and saw that it was 
occupied by a nondescript yellow bitch, with a litter of still 
sightless puppies, while some mess — maybe for her, maybe 
for the chickens — stood warming in a pannikin in the grate, 
amid the gray ash at the edge of the gleaming logs. 

The elderly maid reappeared and showed him to his room, 
where he found his luggage, still unstrapped. 

It was a large apartment, freezingly cold, with a reluctant 
fire burning in a high grate: very clean and well- furnished 
with heavy, old-fashioned furniture. But the washing-ware 
was all odd pieces of different pattern ; and when he asked 
for hot water it was brought him in a tin dipper by a scared 
small girl with a fragmentary cap at the back of her head : 
boiling-hot, it is true, but with a scrap of potato-peel floating 


118 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


upon the top ; while the soap was a virulent yellow square, 
with sharp corners, evidently enough cut from a bar: the 
soap-dish a blue-and-white saucer. 

Were these people intolerably mean, or were they poor? 
If poor, how in the world did they propose to pay him the 
sum which he, out of sheer audacity, had chosen to ask! 
Hoy land wondered as he dried his hands upon the rough, 
snow-white towel. 

The parlor-maid, or whatever she might be — with her 
straight, appraising gaze, confessing to all it saw, so unlike 
the non-committal glance of the usual well-trained servant 
— had told him that tea was just ready in the dining-room. 
And already it was half -past six. This meant high tea, 
“with a relish.” So that was the sort of people they were ; 
there seemed no further need for any sort of speculation. 
Hoyland unpacked a few of his belongings, leaving his 
evening-clothes at the bottom of his bag, with a little sneer 
at them, at himself and the world into which he had tumbled. 
However, and for how long, would he be able to stand 
it? 

The wardrobe, as big as a small room, smelt of lavender, 
was lined with yellowish newspapers : there was a large 
framed engraving on one wall depicting the coronation of 
Queen Victoria, and a text over his bed : “Thou, God, seest 
me” — which gave him some faint amusement. 

As he passed out of his room he paused upon the landing 
to light a cigarette. Whether they liked smoke or not, they 
must get used to it. It seemed the sort of house where any- 
thing of the kind might be forbidden, excepting in the 
kitchen; and yet he supposed that old Clayton patronized 
a churchwarden or briar. 

From half-way down the stairs he caught sight of a girl’s 
figure, in a rough brown skirt and white blouse, which he 
recognized as the same that he had seen on his way up to the 
house — minus the long coat — ^bending over the hearth, stir- 
ring the contents of the pannikin with a piece of stick. 

“Judging from the hot water, it’s more than likely to be 
the tea ‘mashing,’ or whatever they call it,” thought Hoy- 
land. What a place ! What people I What crudity, rough- 
ness, coarseness I Everything but dirt ; though there seemed 
to be something hard and repellent about the very cleanliness ; 
those bare, scrubbed boards which edged the carpet in his 
room, for instance. Yet there was no sign of real poverty; 


THE LITTLE SOUL 119 

probably they were nothin the least poor, simply had no 
idea how to do anything. 

The girl at the hearth straightened herself and moved 
towards him, with a couple of dogs — a mud-caked Aberdeen 
and a rough-coated white terrier — close about her feet. 
She had thrown off the preposterous hat, apparently without 
a glance in the mirror, or so much as putting a hand to her 
hair which lay flattened in a dim mass round her head. He 
had not been mistaken in his impression of youth ; and yet, 
for all her youth, the almost childlike simplicity of her gaze, 
her clear blue eyes, she was more woman than girl. A little 
under medium height, slender and yet deep-breasted, she had 
full curved lips which folded to an extraordinary calm when 
she was not speaking, and perhaps it was this which gave 
the impression of balancing towards womanhood rather than 
girlhood, combined, as it was, with a sort of steady gravity ; 
a rather short face, with a firm, rounded chin, a milk-white 
skin with a faint veil of freckles across the nose and under 
the eyes — warmer in tint and yet much the same as those with 
which artificial light had made a mockery of the open air 
in Leila Gavin’s face. Hoyland had not thought of Leila 
for months and months, and now the comparison annoyed 
him, though to a far lesser degree than other such compari- 
sons were fated to do in the near future. If there was any- 
thing new or fresh in this stripped life, for heaven’s sake let 
him have it, he would have said. 

‘‘How do you do ?” — the girl put out her hand, coarsened 
and reddened with cold. “I hope you’re not frozen. I sent 
an extra coat — ” 

“It was pretty cold,” acknowledged Hoyland ; then smiled. 
“But, as you see, I’ve managed to survive.” He moved 
towards the fire and held out his hand to the blaze : after all, 
the girl was not at all bad; good-looking, even, in a sort 
of way. 

“I suppose the others will be here in a minute; tea’s just 
ready. That’ll do more than anything else tO' revive you. 
Unless you’d like a glass of wine first ?” 

“Sherry wine !” thought Hoyland, with an inward grimace, 
as he refused this offer. “If only it were a whiskey-and- 
soda, now! But that marked the difference — ‘a glass of 
wine.’ ” 

He supposed that they were the sort of people who had 
never so much as heard of late dinner, for there was no hint 


120 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


of any sort of excuse or explanation. And yet, questioning 
the small servant a few days later, he found that there had 
always been late dinner, even a man-servant, until the war ; 
and Hoyland cursed them for their coolness ; partly for that 
calm assumption, which ran side by side with their extreme 
simplicity, that every one must realize what was the right 
thing to do at such a time, that their economies needed no ex- 
planation ; and partly for that mania which seemed to possess 
them, as it possessed most people nowadays, for showing 
their patriotism by making both themselves and every one 
else as uncomfortable as possible. 

The yellow cur which had been fawning against her mis- 
tress’s knees when he started tO' descend the stairs was back 
again in her basket, watching him with suspicion from above 
the frayed rim. 

“Carrie doesn’t like strangers,” remarked the girl, and 
pursed up her mouth in an encouraging whistle. 

There was a movement of the creature’s head which sug- 
gested a wag of the tail; but she did not leave her haven, 
nor did she take her eyes from Hoyland, who reflected upon 
the appalling names which these people gave tO' their animals. 

“Flo” — “Carrie !’' Florence — Caroline ! 

The girl stooped, gave the contents of the tin a last stir, 
"and set it on one side. “It’s for the chicks — they want 
something warm this cold weather,” she said; and then 
glanced up at the staircase. 

“Here’s Mother. Now we’ll have tea.” 

Mrs. Clayton moved down the very center of the narrow 
staircase with a curious deliberation and care, her eyes set 
intently in front of her. She did not touch the banister, 
nor did she hesitate when she reached the bottom step ; but 
once upon level ground she paused, her head held high, a little 
on one side, as though she were listening. 

Her daughter turned quickly towards her and slipped an 
arm through hers : “This is Mr. Hoyland, Mother, darling,” 
she said; and the mistress of the house, turning a trifle in 
Hoyland’s direction, put out her hand, still looking straight 
in front of her, in an oddly vague and detached fashion. 

As Hoyland touched her hand, he felt that it was peculiarly 
hot ; not moist, but glowing ; she had smiled as she extended 
it, with the murmur of something which sounded like “Very 
pleased,” but the moment it met his she drew it back, sharply, 
while a scared look came into her eyes. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


121 


‘‘He — he’s — there’s something — ’’ she began confusedly; 
and Hoyland saw that the daughter — raising the hand which 
held her mother’s arm — laid it along the back of hers, inter- 
lacing fingers, as they moved towards the dining-room. 

“He’s frozen and starved,” she said. “As for us — I’ve 
been hard at work all the afternoon, and tea’s more than an 
hour late; in your honor, Mr. Hoyland, sO' you mustn’t 
be shocked by our appetites.” 

The girl spoke gayly, and yet with the steady gayety of a 
naturally grave, well-balanced nature ; but Hoyland scarcely 
heeded her. He was thinking of Mrs. Clayton and her odd ' 
welcome — if welcome it could be called. She had blue 
eyes like her daughter ; but while the girl’s were an intensely 
deep blue, shaded by thick, short black lashes, the mother’s 
were pale, with a curious translucent quality, so that against 
the light one felt that one might almost see through them. 
Her long-lipped mouth was sensitive and closely folded; 
while she was so thin as to- appear emaciated, with long, slen- 
der and very beautiful hands. Her gray hair was straight 
and fine and not too tidy, and Hoyland wondered — rather 
irritably — ^if any one of the family ever looked in the glass. 
For so long a^ he was at Ox Lee he never saw her dressed in 
anything but gray, while her daughter wore, for the most 
part, warm shades of brown, the color of rich plow-land. 
It was as though the two represented by nature, and without 
knowing it, the earth and air : while as tO' Anthony — as he 
came to know him — what could Anthony be, unless it were 
the fourth element — water? 

Miss Clayton — ^he supposed that this was the “Miss Diana” 
of whom the groom had spoken — seated herself at the head 
of the table and began to pour out the tea, warming the 
cups by dipping them into a steaming bowl of water. There 
was a good deal of food upon the table : boiled eggs, toast, 
scones, some sort of a meat- jelly, honey, preserves ; and a ham 
on the sideboard. But still the girl seemed anxious lest Hoy- 
land should starve, asked him if he Would not like a chop or 
some cold beef, whether he had missed his “dinner.” All 
this, however, was mere politeness; her real attention and 
thought was for her mother : putting everything well within 
her reach, even getting up to place her cup by her side, though 
it was not until she said : “The honey is just in front of you, 
dear,” that Hoyland — ^who had made up his mind that the 
older woman was more than half -crazed — realized, with a 


122 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

shock of surprise— that sort of resentment which conies to a 
selfish nature when another person’s affliction, with its pos- 
sible exactions, is intruded upon it — that she was blind. 

And yet that was not all. She was not only blind, she was 
unaccountably ill at ease. The faint color in her long, 
delicate face came and went, and she trembled; glancing 
from side to side with that odd tilt of the head, which must 
mean listening as it was not sight. 

Once she said: ‘‘Where is Anthony? Why doesn’t An- 
thony come ?” and her daughter answered : 

“He must be washing his hands, dear. But he came in 
when I did. Perhaps he’s shy — I know he is shy ; he’s not 
used to strangers.” She turned towards Hoyland, half 
apologetically, while he thought: 

“Like Carrie ! It seems a kind of asylum for every sort 
of defective !” 

Just as Miss Clayton rose to put the scones and tea down to 
the fire, the door opened, not very wide, and a youth of eight- 
een or so slipped into the room ; moved across to Mrs. Clay- 
ton and bending over her kissed her cheek. 

It was evidently an acknowledged rite, for his sister de- 
layed her introduction until it was over. Then she said: 
“This is my brother Anthony, Mr. Hoyland,” upon which 
Hoyland shook hands with his pupil, an inordinately tall, 
narrow-shouldered boy who looked as though he had out- 
grown his strength ; with his mother’s light eyes, long, deli- 
cately-cut face, and a thatch of straight hair, many shades 
lighter than his sister’s. 

There were, indeed, noticeable differences between all 
three of them; the girl so much stronger, more vital, self- 
reliant, altogether robust ; all the pigments of her hair, eyes, 
vivid red lips, more intense than was the case with either of 
the other two. And yet, despite this, they were in some 
ways so alike, showed so little physical sign of any other 
strain that strangers were momentarily overcome by a whim- 
sical wonder as toi how it was possible for either boy or girl 
to have possessed a second parent. 

Taken roughly, as a whole, the world of youth — ^that 
strangely blurred and devious way betwixt boyhood and 
manhood, with its warm air, its sudden chills, its perilous 
heights, depths — ^seems to be divided between two sorts of 
boys. If we cut out the bold — who are all seeming, never 
really bold, only bent upon proving their independence — there 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


123 


remains the shy and the reserved; the latter leaning most 
to the masculine, the former to the feminine type; and it 
was to these that Anthony Clayton belonged. His shyness 
—with none of that set, all-surrounding armor of reserve, 
which always means pride and strength to fall back upon — 
was far more sensitive than any girl’s ; tinged with something 
wild and rustic — though more in the faun-like than the 
boorish, clumsy sense of the world. 

Blushing tO' his forehead, half lost beneath its thatch of 
pale brown hair, the boy shook hands with his tutor, glancing 
at him sideways; then sat down by his mother, bending 
towards her as though glad of some diversion ; the very back 
of his neck, the skin fine and clear as his sister’s, tinged with 
color. 

“What are you having, old dear ? — -What’s nice ? — I’m as 
hungry as twenty hunters.” 

Mrs. Clayton put out one hand and clutched his sleeve. 
As the boy laid his own upon it Hoyland could not fail to no- 
tice the likeness between the two ; both so long and narrow, 
the son’s far whiter and thinner than it ought to have been. 
At any rate, these people were not vulgar, they were not 
coarse; they were interesting, however odd they might be. 
That remained, anyhow, until they began to bore him, he 
thought: his cold, appraising glance, so like a parrot, full 
upon them. 

The mother whispered — ^he could only just catch the words 
— “I don’t know, Anthony, I don’t know, but there’s some- 
thing wrong; some — some — ” She raised her head and 
her delicate nostrils quivered ; for the moment she was like 
a finely-bred dog upon a faint, inexplicable and yet certain 
scent ; the pupils of her eyes contracted to mere pin-points. 
Then, suddenly, she clung to her son, her face against his 
shoulder, and broke into a sort of wail : “Oh, there is some- 
thing ; there must be. You know, you know — ” 

Brother and sister both bent over her. It seemed to 
Hoyland that he was forgotten. Then the boy’s eyes — mov- 
ing round the room as though, oddly enough, in search of 
something which might be distressing the blind woman — 
rested for a moment upon his tutor, and he gave a little, half- 
amused, half-embarrassed laugh. 

“I am awfully sorry, sir, but — Mother, darling, it’s noth- 
ing, nothing! I expect — ” he turned again to Hoyland—^ 
“I expect you just nicked yourself, shaving; but my mother; 


124 THE LITTLE SOUL 

notices far more than we do, seems to know by some sort of 
instinct— gets in an awful state— don’t you, old darling? 
— over, over — Well, there is just the tiniest trickle of blood ! 
On your right cheek — no ; more to the right.” 

Hoyland put up his handkerchief, then glanced at it. Yes, 
there it was : a minute smear of crimson. Already it seemed 
as though he must have caught some of the savage attributes 
of these lunatics, for he could not have so much as glanced at 
himself when he brushed his hair before he came downstairs. 

“A lump of mud flew up from the horse’s hoof and hit my 
cheek; there must have been a stone in it,” he explained. 
But he might as well have kept silence, for nO’ one seemed 
to heed him. 

“Only the tiniest cut on Mr. Hoyland’s face, that’s all. 
The minutest cut; nothing more, nothing but that,” said 
Diana. 

“Nothing? Are you sure that there’s nothing more?” 
inquired Mrs. Clayton ; then added, with an air of desperate 
obstinacy, “Oh, but there is something — there is !” 


CHAPTER II 

Once tea was over the little party moved into the hall and 
quickly dispersed. It struck Hoyland that Clayton pere 
must be engaged in some sort of business which kept him 
late away from home, for there seemed to be no question 
of leaving anything ready for him. After a moment or so 
of fidgeting from one foot to another, picking up things and 
putting them down again, Anthony retreated, through a 
baize door, leading, apparently, into the back regions, while 
Mrs. Clayton stood nervously in the middle of the hall ; then 
— just as Hoyland was wondering whether he should offer 
the poor lady a chair in her own house^ — moved into a room 
to the left, from which, after a moment’s pause, came the 
notes of a flute, at first so confused, so blurred, that Hoyland 
gave a shudder of disgust at the thought that this was to 
be added to the other horrors of the place, but gathering 
in clearness after a moment or so, each note falling surely 
and more surely, until the whole was as clear, as sweet and 
pure as the spring notes of a blackbird after rain. 

Miss Clayton had raised her tin of chicken-food from off 
the hearth ; the dogs had gathered round her, even the mother 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


125 


had come out of her basket. It was evident that they v/ere 
all certain of a walk of some sort, when, of a sudden, with 
one arm in her overcoat sleeve, the girl remembered her 
manners. 

“I must show you your study, the room I have made 
ready f6r you and Anthony to work in. I only hope the 
fire's all right. Nanny doesn’t always remember fires very 
well. You may have some letters that you want to write.” 

It was evident that she was anxious to have him off her 
mind, for there was real relief in her voice as she led the way 
along a narrow, flagged passage to a room at the right of the 
hall, and exclaimed : “Oh, that’s right. A lovely fire !” 

It was, indeed, a lovely fire, a generous glow of half-burnt 
logs. A reading-lamp with a green shade stood upon the 
writing-table — an immense affair, with drawers to either 
side and a hole for the knees— upon which lay a careful 
assortment of books, papers, pens. Picking up a book at 
random, Hoyland glanced into it : an obsolete algebra, with 
“Richard Clayton, Tideswell Grammar School, November, 
1856,” written on the fly-leaf, and beneath this in a school- 
boy scrawl : 

“Black is the raven, blacker is the rook, 

But blackest is the blackguard who steals this book.” 

“It was my father’s room,” said Miss Clayton, “and some 
of those are his books — yes, that one — and some Anthony’s. 
But he has missed so much, got so behindhand, that I was 
afraid they would seem rather childish. He’s really clever, 
I think — we all think him clever; but he’s been so delicate' 
up to now, had so little chance ; besides, how can we tell, 
with nothing to compare with ? When he was just on twelve 
we thought that he might get on better at school — that was 
before my father died. But he had rheumatic fever there, 
and that affected his heart. . . . Then we tried again, when 
he was fifteen; but he couldn’t play games like other boys, 
and, of course, that made him miserable. . . . He didn’t feel 
it here, with his fishing and the farm, and all the animals, 
which he loves. Since that he has worked with the vicar, 
and the village schoolmaster has taken him in mathematics. 
Mr. Hankin says he has a sort of instinct for Greek, for any- 
thing purely classical. But I’m not sure whether he doesn’t 
make allowances. ... I have a sort of feeling that Anthony 
ought to be with somebody who judges him on his own 


126 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


merits, like any other boy. But Tm afraid you must expect 
all sorts of odd gaps in his knowledge — ” She hesitated, 
her concerned eyes full upon Hoyland, weighing him up, 
wondering as to his patience. “I don't know, you see; 
I can’t tell.” 

“What schools was he at?” 

“First at my father’s old school — Tideswell Grammar 
School; so high up, so washed with air that father had an 
idea that it must be good for him — ^harden him off. Then, 
later, I tried Repton — I always wanted a proper public school 
for him. Now, as you know, his great desire is for Cam- 
bridge, to go deeper into his Greek and Latin studies — take 
up philosophy and classical history. That’s why I wrote to 
Mr. Ferguson, who put me into communication with you. 
I do so want Anthony to have the very, very best ; to have 
everything he wants ; be prepared for everything.” 

“Then it was you who wrote?” Hoyland smiled. It 
was impossible for him not to at least start off with being 
pleasant to a pretty girl: and there was no doubt about 
her prettiness. He hesitated in his thought. After all, 
“pretty” was not the word; something in her balance, her 
calm, the fine yet generous lines of her, spoke of beauty 
more than prettiness, though her nose was perhaps a trifle 
too heavy for the completely classic. 

“Yes, it was I who wrote — didn’t you know? Oh, of 
course not ; you addressed the letters ‘D. A. Clayton, Esq.’ ! 
But it did not seem to matter; it made no difference. It 
happens so often. My father died six years ago; he left 
everything in my charge. I write all the business letters — 
a great many people take it for granted that I’m a man ; I 
suppose it’s my writing — ^give all the orders, decide every- 
thing in connection with Anthony. Of course, when he is 
older, it will be different — everything will be his. My mother 
is very fragile; she must not be bothered about anything. 
Everything I do is— must be— done upon my own initia- 
tive.” 

“You strike me as very young for so much responsibility,” 
said Hoyland, with something deliberate, subtly tender in 
his glance and voice. 

The girl raised her eyes and looked up at him, fully and 
gravely, as though she were, indeed, another man. “I 
am five-and-twenty— not very young.” She had taken up 
a book, was turning it over and over in her hand, glancing 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


127 


at it — not fidgeting, but considering. “Mr. Hoyland,” she 
began again, “you will remember, won’t you, if you want 
anything, if anything’s not to your liking, you will speak to 
me or Nanny — ” 

“Nanny ?” 

“Yes ; she brought in the tea. I expect she showed you to 
your room.” 

“Oh, the parlor-maid — ” 

“Well, I suppose she is the parlor-maid — among other 
things.” For the first time since they met a smile crossed the 
girl’s face. “She was my old nurse ; now she is everything 
to all of us, above all, to my mother.” Again she hesitated, 
then laid the book which she was holding upon the table, 
and faced Hoyland, definitely. “But won’t you sit down ?” 

“You—” 

“Oh, I like to stand.” 

“Then I will stand too.” In some odd way Hoyland 
was piqued. Did she mean to challenge him, standing so 
near, facing him in that fashion? A girl like that wanted 
kissing, that’s what she wanted. He wondered w'hether 
she ever had been kissed by any one, apart from her mother 
and brother, insipid women-friends ? 

“I think that perhaps I ought — ^that it will be better — 
make everything much easier — if I ask you not to seem to 
take much notice of my mother until you’ve been here a few 
days; until she’s had time to get used to you. She’s very 
highly-strung, very nervous with strangers. She — 

“Oh, no, no! you mustn’t think that; indeed, you mustn’t 
think that — never that !” she broke off, for Hoyland’s 
thoughts were clear enough in his half-contemptuous glance. 
“You mustn’t imagine that there’s anything worse than 
nerves — all she’s been through, and then the want of her 
sight and all. But, really, as you’ll soon find out, she is clev- 
erer — much, much cleverer — than any of us. She has the 
most extraordinary insight, the clearest judgment, if only 
she’s not upset in any way. Sometimes I think that there’s 
no end to the things my mother knows : only it’s never good 
to force her into any fixed determination — ” 

“Or dislike?” 

“Or dislike.” She made no effort to palliate the meaning 
in Hoyland’s words. “She’s, somehow or other, startled 
now — but, then, she is so often startled. It would not be 
fair to you that any one of us should start with any — any 


128 THE LITTLE SOUL 

sort of feeling of definite antagonism. And so — well, it 
seemed better to explain.” 

‘^You thought you saw signs of it?” Hoyland was smil- 
ing; more genially now. He didn’t care a hang about the 
mother, but he would be a fo 61 to antagonize the daughter, 
apparently the one sane person in the place. 

‘‘I don’t know, really I don’t know. I think it was only 
the accident of that little scratch on your face. But I want 
you to know this. ... It was she who was so anxious for 
you to come. We” — she hesitated, with the first hint of 
shyness that she had shown — ‘‘we get into our own ways; 
are rather afraid of strangers. But Mother was determined 
that there ought to be some one here who, apart from his 
preparation for college, would teach Anthony something of 
the world which he has, after all, got to live in. 

“I can manage the farm, the business, the house — though 
Nanny does most of that now that we’re so short-handed; 
but for anything else I’m perfectly hopeless. I don’t know 
how other people look at things — their sense of values. It 
would be awfully hard on Anthony to gO' to Cambridge 
knowing as little as he does about life. Of course, 
my mother’s absolutely right there. Besides, a man has 
to learn to play as well as to work, and in a man’s way ; 
with a woman it’s different. It took my mother to see this ; 
and you must never, never think — never even appear to 
think, to notice — oh, other things — things that don’t really 
count.” 

“You mean, if she is upset, like she was to-night, not to 
deduce — ” 

“Yes, yes, that’s it; not to deduce anything — anything 
of that sort.” 

“Just to carry on?” 

“Yes, just to carry on.” Hoyland’s tone was so matter- 
of-fact that the girl was grateful. It was such a relief, living 
among highly-strung, emotional people, to be able to speak 
with any one so untouched by any sort of vulgar surprise, 
or even that pity, which could hurt so much more than any- 
thing else. 

“She is so extraordinarily sensitive, she would know in 
a moment if you thought— well, that she wasn’t in some sort 
of way responsible. It would spoil her as far as you are con- 
cerned : you’d never get to know her then — never. It is as 
j^ough she were like a pool which, when it is stirred, is all 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


129 


muddy and indistinct, but when it is still gives back all sorts 
of beautiful, clear reflections. A very dreadful thing hap- 
pened just before my brother Anthony was born. — 1 think 
I’d better tell you this, it will help you to understand, to real- 
ize. — My eldest brother, who was three years older than I am, 
had a new pony given him for his tenth birthday : he had of- 
ten ridden an old horse we had then, and it seemed that a 
pony must be so much safer. My father didn’t know any- 
thing about horses — of course, he didn’t know, thought it 
would be all right. He had always wanted to live in the 
country, thought of little else; 'his grandfather and all the 
Claytons before him had been tenants of Ox Lee, and he used 
to tell me that from the time he was quite a small boy he made 
up his mind to come back as the owner of the place. But 
apart from his school-life he had always lived and worked in 
Manchester. He was wonderful. He made his own way. 
He looked after the whole family ; my grandfather was never 
very much good for anything. He was over fifty when he 
did at last retire and buy this place. You see, he couldn’t 
know anything really of country life, of animals, but his one 
desire was always that we should grow up with it, love it 
— really belong to it. He had great ideas of making my 
brother plucky and independent; and so had my mother. 
She was used to the country, took all sorts of sports and 
things for granted, did not know what it was to be afraid — 
in those days. 

“My brother didn’t like the pony — it was so different to 
the old horse, which would stand like a rock while he scram- 
bled on and off — I remember the look of it now : its shining 
chestnut coat, the way it showed the white of its eye, dancing 
from side to side. Dad called my mother to see Johnny 
mount — I suppose he thought that he would shame him out 
of his fear. He thought it was all nonsense, that he was do- 
ing the right thing — of course, that’s what he thought” — the 
girl spoke as though she were determined to check any 
shadow of blame which might, even at the back of her own 
mind, attach to her father — “he could never have been con- 
sciously cruel to any one. But he had had a hard li f e, believed 
in determination, that you could do anything by determina- 
tion. My mother was never hard, but — though I think that 
even then she had odd, nervous fears which we could never 
understand — she knew nothing of physical fear. I remem- 
ber now — and, of course, she never forgets, never can forget, 


130 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


that's the cruel part of it ! — how she used to laugh at Johnny 
for his cowardice — how she laughed then, and how he 
scrambled on to the pony directly she appeared upon the 
scene.” 

For a moment she paused ; her face grew stiff with the 
effort of self-control. “The pony reared,” she went on in 
a low voice. “He was thrown; his head was cut open 
against the very step upon which she was standing — I was a 
tiny thing, but I can never, never forget — ^no one could ever 
forget. And what it must have been for her! She who 
worshiped Johnny. . . . She was very, very ill for months 
afterw^ards — it was that which gave her that horror of blood. 
And now she knows at once, even if one of the dogs comes 
into the house with so much as a scratch upon it. — Well, you 
know what happened this evening, how distressed she was — 
it must have been that; it couldn’t have been anything 
else.” The girl’s clear, sexless gaze was full upon him, 
searching, weighing — a little doubtful. 

“Then Anthony was born, and she lost her sight. Mother, 
darling Mother! Oh, do you wonder that we feel we can 
never do enough for her? The worst of life, the desperate 
part of life, is that one can do so little, however much one 
cares. If your mother were like this — blind — so sorrowful, 
always reproaching herself — Oh, well, you know what you’d 
feel!” 

“My poor mother died close on a year ago.” Hoyland 
spoke gravely, but the expression amused him, as it always 
did: that “poor,” so common to the devout, who vaunt 
death as the happier state. 

“Oh, I am sorry; but there — it’s all fresh enough for you 
to realize — ^know — what you’d feel if she were like my 
mother is now. That it was impossible — impossible ever to 
do enough.” 

She hesitated for a moment or two, glancing round the 
room — the book-shelves with their glass doors and trellis of 
brass wire, the heavy maroon curtains, the fire, over which 
she leant and threw another log. “I must go and finish off 
with the chickens ; we have quite a large farm ‘here, and 
nearly all the men, the bailiff and all, have been called up. 
There’s a lot to do.” 

She moved to the door, then glanced up in some surprise 
as Hoyland held it open for her. “You will ask for any 
thing you want— -you won’t feel lonely or strange? Per- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


131 


haps you would like one of the dogs to keep you company ?” 

“I’m sure that the dogs would rather be out of doors with 
you.” 

“Well, perhaps. To-morrow, of course, there will be 
Anthony. You and Anthony will get used to each other; 
you’ll soon slip into our ways.” There was a sort of decision 
about this ; despite all her concern as to his comfort it was 
evident that their ways were not to be altered to fit in with 
his. “Nanny will bring you your supper about nine. I’ll 
be with Mother, so I’ll say good-night now. You are sure 
you would not like one of the dogs ?” 

“No, thanks; I don’t think. Miss Clayton, that I really 
have any great passion for animals.” 

“No?” He had been seized with a sudden desire to 
offend, hurt her, but she glanced at him gravely, with no 
particular concern. “Well, it’s better than liking them too 
much, as some people do; liking them because they never 
contradict or disagree. Liking them better than children, 
for instance! Well, good-night, Mr. Hoyland. I hope 
you’ll sleep well.” 

“Good-night, Miss Clayton ; and, believe me, that I value 
the confidence you have shown in me — almost more than I 
can say.” The look he bent upon her might have been 
labeled, amidst his panoply of conquest, as “Tender and 
Respectful Understanding,” so well had he calculated its 
value, its appropriate use. 

As he closed the door behind Miss Clayton, he realized that 
she had not so much as noticed it ; was still thinking of what 
had gone before, and gave a little laugh. So this was the 
end of the day I There was no alternative to solitary im- 
prisonment, or so it seemed, unless it were feeding the chick- 
ens with his employer. His employer! Good Lord, only 
to think of it! 

He glanced at the black marble clock upon the mantel- 
piece. 

It was a quarter-past eight: the sort of time when he 
would, in the old days, have been just starting the best part 
of the day with dinner. The thought of champagne struck 
across his senses like a whiff of perfume — champagne and all 
it meant ; a civilized dinner, and after- that the last two 
acts of a play, or an hour at a music-hall ; maybe with Leila 
Gavin or one of her predecessors ; more likely with one of 
those society women who were so much more flagrantly con- 


132 THE LITTLE SOUL 

spicuous than Leila and her kind; trading upon the place 
they held in the world, their husband’s names. 

Later on would come supper at the Cafe Royal, a night 
club, the Tango: an utter disregard of the fact that night 
was made for sleep : painted eyes, red lips, dead-white faces, 
the smell of flesh and wine. And, better than all of these, 
those endless discussions, running far into the morning, upon 
everything in and out of life : the deference paid to his 
opinion, the way in which people remembered him, reminded 
him of what he had said, months and months ago : argu- 
ments in which, second to him, came old McCabe, with that 
Rabelais-like humor which arose through his immense 
melancholy at such times as he was just sufficiently mellowed 
by good wine or fine old brandy. 

The light beneath the green shade burnt steadily: the 
books behind their trellis-work were in ordered array — ^the 
works of Dickens and Thackeray ; “The Annals of Agricul- 
ture” ; dissertations upon “The Dog,” “The Horse,” “Stock- 
Breeding and Rearing.” 

The wind had risen and was raging round the house, and 
when Nanny appeared with his supper — ^bread and cheese, 
a loaf of bread, beer in a brown jug — the plaintive notes of 
the flute floated in through the open door, a minor accom- 
paniment to the wail and roar, the sudden boom which every 
now and then beat like a fist against the window pane. 

“Miss Diana can’t get the mistress away from her music 
to-night.” Nancy glanced at him gravely, as though he 
were the cause of her mistress’s uneasiness. Hoyland real- 
ized the look now, the “old nurse look,” summing up and dis- 
approving. It had been like that when he was a child; 
strange servants had never liked him, spoken of him “upset- 
ting their charges.” This woman actually said it, reprov- 
ingly, deliberately. “She’s upset, that’s what she is.” 

“Where’s Mr. Anthony?” 

“In bed, I reckon; we’re early folk here.” 

“What time’s breakfast?” 

“Eight o’clock. Oi’ll call yer at seven.” 

There was no “if it suits you.” It was an ultimatum, 
nrery different from the insinuating, half-questioning reply of 
a well-trained servant. 

Making his way to his room soon after half-past ten — 
driven there by sheer boredomr— just at the top of the stairs, 
in the clear sheet of moonlight which swept in through the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


133 


unshaded hall windows, Hoyland met Miss Cla3d:on, with a 
candle in one hand, coming out of what he afterwards found 
to be her mother’s room. She was wearing a thick white 
dressing-gown, and her hair was in two plaits down her back ; 
but she did not seem in the least embarrassed at the encoun- 
ter, and with a kindly-expressed hope that he would sleep 
well, turned away in the opposite direction. 

For a moment Hoyland thought of following, making love 
to her; breaking through that virginal calm which, in an 
odd way, outraged him, forcing a sort of scene — anything to 
shatter the deadly silence, the emptiness, the ennui of the 
place. But after a moment’s hesitation he turned aside 
to his own room. He had got to stick it out for a bit, until 
things improved, until he was fit again, and some of these 
middle-class countrywomen were such hopeless prudes. 
Better leave it alone for the present, anyhow; and, after 
all — though he could but admire her — there was not a thrill, 
or anything in the least like it. 

In his own room, with the fire sunk to a glow of crimson 
ash, he moved to the window and pulled aside a crack of cur- 
tain. The sky, of that dim, periwinkle-blue so seldom seen 
apart from old Chinese color-prints, was swept by torn frag- 
ments of silvery cloud ; the moon, almost at its full, swum in 
an infinity of space, flattening down the surrounding hills to 
a mere nothing; the sharp, wild bark of a fox on some rock- 
strewn slope, echoing and re-echoing through the clear air, 
was followed by the exasperated tumult of dogs imprisoned 
in an outhouse beneath his window. 

Drawing the curtains together again, Hoyland took a 
candle and held it close to the looking-glass on his dressing- 
table ; bending forward and peering at his face — even thus, 
with the curtains drawn and windows shut, the flame was 
blown all sideways, the wax guttered down and over his 
hand. 

There was the tiniest scratch upon his right cheek, almost 
invisible had it not been for the clot of dried blood, the 
minutest pin-head, at one end. How in the world had that 
blind fool come to guess at it, he wondered, as he washed his 
face and applied a strip of black sticking-plaster? What 
odd, over-sensitive sense of smell or intuition did it bespeak? 
There were mystery-mongers in London who would give any- 
thing to be put in touch with such a case : Friedland, with his 
Black Magic, for instance. All very well — ^but to be shut up 


134 ! 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

alone with people of that sort, it was beyond a joke! The 
boy Anthony did not look much better — half-baked. A 
savage determination to make his pupil suffer for his bore- 
dom swept over Hoyland. Teach him! What wouldn’t he 
teach him? Classics? They wanted classics: well, they 
should have them, with all their cold degeneration. Catullus, 
for instance — how would Catullus taste to an Ox Lee mental 
palate ? 


CHAPTER III 

Life in the Army is supposedly monotonous. To Hoy- 
land’s brief experience it was nothing to the life at Ox Lee. 
Both in France and in training in England the monotony had 
been mostly surface. Where you have any large body of 
men, they may seem to move in unison; in reality they are 
for ever pushed and pulled this way and that by the diverse 
intelligences which are set over them — ^by the way in which 
they themselves take things. Apart from this, which is 
usual, it must be remembered that the period during which 
Hoyland was with the forces was one of excitement which 
was to remain unparalleled until the autumn following 
upon this very spring, which saw him derelict in the wilds 
of Derbyshire; while apart from the constant alarms 
and excursions, the zig-zag of rumor, there was every 
sort of personal passion, pain, pleasure, nobility, vice, self- 
sacrifice, greed — the yeast of life astir in its starkest 
phases. 

One never knew what might happen, what was happening : 
that was the truth of the matter. The pendulum of life 
and death, success and failure, swung widely from one 
extreme to another ; if it stopped, it was only for a sort of 
gathering of forces, as the heart seems to stop between two 
of its intensest beats. To the unintelligent there may, 
indeed, have been monotony; they were out there to fight, 
and if they weVe unable to fight their nerves grew raw with 
boredom. In this might be found the reason why the most 
stolid — the athletes, the agricultural laborers, and such- 
like, were the most likely to panic after a long period of 
inactivity. But for any student of life, the excitement, the 
interest was unending. 

Hoyland had grumbled like the rest over the monotony. 
He now realized that he had not so much as known the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 135 

meaning of the word ; while at Ox Lee, he was, as it were, 
stripped down to it at its very barest. 

The languor of spring in his veins might have eased 
things a little ; but arriving the last week of March, a fort- 
night or so of comparatively mild weather was followed by 
another couple of weeks of cruel cold — a sprinkling of reluc- 
tant snow, an east wind which cut to the bone, iron-gray 
skies, storm-rent and dour. 

He was sensitive to cold as he had never before been: 
he had lost flesh ; his muscles were slack. Naked in his tub- 
bath, glancing at himself sideways over his shoulder in the 
glass, he realized that where his spine had once lain sunken 
between two ridges of muscle, it now stood out, with the 
flesh fallen away upon either side of it. McCabe would have 
had something to say to that: if a man was as old as his 
arteries, he was as sane as the protection of his spinal cord 
allowed him to be. This was one of McCabe’s special fan- 
cies, and no new one either; for there lay that small bone 
which was designated in the time of Hadrian as “Luz” — the 
seat of eternal life : with much of what was known as moral- 
ity and immorality, genius and insanity. There, in the 
very marrow of man’s inmost being, lurked those devils 
which — or so the Australian aborigines believe — are stirred 
to malignant life, should any one be rash enough to sit with 
his back to the fire. 

And there, likely enough, was to be found much of the 
reason for Hoy land’s new sense of exasperation, desperate 
impatience, furious irritability. 

He had been tranquil before because his bones were well 
covered; satisfied with life as it was — ^very much in his 
own hands — padded away from the tiresomeness of other 
people. Apart from this, he had that freedom of movement 
which belongs to the monied classes — could come and go as 
he wished. 

It now seemed as though he were raw to the rest of the 
world. He had never known shame for anything before, but 
— Greek in spirit as he had always been — he was bitterly 
ashamed of his maimed hands. The Very sight of that stiffly 
gloved artificial member, that parody which was, after all, 
so much more useful than the other, insulted him,. 

At first the people at Ox Lee — ‘"Ox Lee” — what a name 1 
— people whose ^^talk is of oxen” — tried to help him, 
showed — apart from Mrs. Clayton and Nanny— a clumsy 


136 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


sort of solicitude; they made allowances, and perhaps that 
more than anything else infuriated him. 

And yet, when Diana, realizing his mood, sympathizing 
with it, left him alone, that did nothing to allay his sense of 
grievance. 

He took it out on Anthony — without a doubt he took it 
out on Anthony ; and yet, from the very beginning, the boy 
had that adoration for him which a stay-at-home, romantic- 
ally-minded youth will have for a man of the world, whom 
he is unable to understand. 

He was extraordinarily hurnble; if Mr. Hoyland was 
impatient with him, it was his own fault ; he was an ignorant 
ass, there was no doubt about that. 

But here the boy underrated himself; he was far from 
ignorant; with all sorts of odd gaps in his knowledge, the 
remainder was up to a standard which the tutor could 
hardly have believed possible. He must have read widely, 
sopped up knowledge. His sister had been right when she 
expressed a fear that some of his books might appear baby- 
ish ; with mathematics he was, indeed, a complete infant, but 
in classics and general literature he was well above the average. 

And yet there was the oddest lack. The human applica- 
tion of things missed him ; there was a sort of wide, sweet 
emptiness about his mind, which took the melody without the 
meaning. 

He was indolent, too. In the outdoor world he loved to 
laze, to look on; his one passion for fishing seemed a part 
of this dreaming. Now and then his sister would sweep him 
into helping her about the farm, but not for long; he would 
linger to look at a nest, a flower, and then drift away. 

She had never in all his life seen him really stick to work 
as he did with Hoyland. And, after all, that was what she 
wanted for him. From her father’s death she had taken a 
man’s burden upon her shoulders. The war, the calling up 
of all the younger farm hands, the loss of the bailiif, had 
added enormously, not only to her cares, but the actual 
hard work which devolved upon her. Anthony could never 
have been of much use in that direction; he was not physi- 
cally strong enough. Besides, the last thing she wished was 
to see him drawn into the monotony of farm life and labor. 
It was a relief to know that he was working so steadily; 
for herself, she had her own job, and it took her all her time 
to get through it. In addition to everything else, the intri- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


137 


cate reports which the agricultural department required 
of farmers at this time were an - intolerable burden upon 
any one whose days were filled, almost from dawn, by 
arduous labor in the open air. Passing through the hall, 
on his way up to bed one night, Hoyland saw her seated at 
her big writing-table, bent forward, asleep, with her head 
among the mass of papers, the account-books, the dull yellow 
forms. 

It was difficult to get on to the land, which was sodden 
with rain and half-melted snow; the lambs were suffering, 
the spring-sowing behindhand. A week later, when the 
weather cleared again, every man had to be at work in the 
fields, and all the lesser tasks slid to her shoulders. Hoy- 
land had never seen any woman work so hard, apart from 
the hospital nurses in the Base hospital. But she never 
seemed bustled or impatient. She was not stolid, but she 
was infinitely calm, considerate towards everything and 
every one ; though to lose any animal, even to have it ill, 
weighed on her as much as though it were a hiunan being. 

Hoyland had been arrogant — almost childish — enough to 
imagine that he would make some sort of impression upon, 
stir in, such a place, and the Vicar’s three daughters, two 
gushing, high-colored and mature young women, and a 
half-grown, pretty piece of insipidity, were visibly fluttered. 
But, apart from them, the inexorable rural life went on 
without deflecting from its routine ; almost without touching 
him, while — 

“Poor things, they’ve really not got much to think of,” 
was Miss Clayton’s unflattering verdict upon the thick- 
falling shower of invitations to sing at concerts, to help 
with this and that with which the Vicarage party deluged 
him. 

At first, indeed, he rather encouraged them ; he had a 
silly idea that he would make Diana Clayton jealous — all 
women were jealous; it was the one attribute to be counted 
upon. But all she said was: “It’s really awfully kind of 
you, and I daresay it will help tO' pass the time. I’m afraid 
it must be very dull for you here” — and that put an end 
to it. Did she really imagine that he was futile enough to 
be so easily amused ? 

As to jealousy . . . How he hated her for her want of it, 
for her indifference, tempered by so much thought and 
kindness! He wr)ndered if anything could ever move her: 


138 THE LITTLE SOUL 

if, being so impervious to love and vanity, she could be 
stirred to anger. 

And then one day he happened to see her with a lad who 
was ill-treating a calf, which he had been sent to fetch up 
from a group of buildings — a barn and a few sheds at the 
bottom of what was known as the “Long Field.” The 
creature’s mother had been left behind in one of the lower 
fields, and its desperate lowing followed them as they made 
their way up to the main farm buildings between two hedges 
which left a sparse strip of muddy lane, deep in ruts and 
pools. 

The calf, just too big to carry, was softly, persistently 
obstinate, as such meek creatures can be; its mother’s cry 
dragged at its heart-strings, and its large, bewildered eyes 
were full of actual tears as it hung back, with a moaning 
sound, against the rope which the boy had about its neck. 
Its hind legs slithered in the mud. He tried pulling, then 
he tried pushing it in front of him; but it was so wobbly, 
so soft and boneless, so loose-legged, that there seemed 
nothing to go against. At last, out of all patience, he fell 
to cursing, then to kicking, his dull, rustic face red and 
aggrieved. He’d — “larn yu blasted, blu Idy yung varmint!” 

Hoyland and Miss Clayton^ — who had met on the road 
from the village, when she had offered :o show him a short 
cut home across the fields — happened io be walking up a 
narrow strip of turf which edged the plow at one side of 
the fence. Hearing something of what was going on, Diana 
climbed the bank and peered over the low-cut hedge, still 
more black and purple than green; then, with a stifled 
exclamation, swung her leg over it and dropped into the 
lane. 

By the time that Hoyland followed her she had the young- 
ster by his coat-collar, was laying into him with her stick, 
while the cause of all the trouble stood back, with outsplayed 
legs, staring, making no attempt at escape. 

“My God!” said Diana, “but it’s I who’ll ‘larn’ you, 
my lad!” Her face was absolutely white, her lips set in 
a hard line. But she ended the beating cleanly — did not go 
on slashing, as most women would have done, while the 
bellowing boy set up no defense. 

Then she put out her hand to the calf, which mumbled it 
with moist, pink lips ; moving along at her side so that the 
rope was slack in her other hand. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


139 


All the way up to the farm, with the blubbering boy 
behind them, she did not speak a word. In the yard they 
ran against his father, who had just got back from the plow, 
and was leading his horses to the trough : a huge, stooping 
fellow, reddish-brown skin and hair, reddish-brown cor- 
duroys, plastered over, merged into one, beneath a thick 
coating of reddish-brown soil, moving slowly, as heavy- 
footed as though the pull of earth, his absorption with it, 
were almost toO' much for him. 

“I thrashed your boy, Jabe, for kicking the calf.’' 

“E-h, well, missus, I reckon ’e wonk be none the wuss for 
that, the young varmint,” said Jabe, with a grin, and chir- 
ruped to his horses, thick in mud as hk iself. 

“I’ll skin you alive another time, if catch you ill-treating 
any beast of mine, or any one else’s, either — mind that!” 
said 'Diana, and those who had known old Clayton would 
have recognized the threat ; her face was still white, but her 
glance was kindly. “And when you go for the pails, you 
may tell Fanny I said to give you a bit o’ cake by way of 
sticking-plaster.” She turned tO' Hoyland as the boy 
shambled off. “I must get my milking-smock; the cows 
are all up.” 

“I thought that class wouldn’t have a hand laid on its 
children.” 

For a moment she stared, then took in his meaning. 
“What, Jabe? . . . Oh, we’re used to each other here, 
understand each other. It’s the new people they won’t take 
anything from; it’s they who make the trouble.” 

So she could be angry, reflected Hoyland, as he turned 
aside to the house and stood scraping his boots at the front 
door. What more might there not be to her ? he wondered, 
as he turned first one foot, then the other, heavy with mud, 
from side to side, finishing off with a besom which stood 
leaning against the side of the porch. Glancing up as he 
finished, he saw that Mrs. Clayton stood just within the 
shadow of the hall, watching him. “The mud’s awful,” 
he said. 

“Yes, yes — it’s awful,” she answered vaguely; hesitated 
a moment, then added: “But, for all that, it’s part of us. 
It belongs to us and we to it ; we live by it, through it — will 
lie cheek-by-jowl with it — Best make friends with it while 
we can. It’s a hard enemy — a hard, inexorable enemy!” 

She turned aside, moved a few steps further into the hall ; 


140 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


then flung over her shoulders : *‘YouVe a classical scholar — 
do you remember how Orestes chances upon the Furies, 
asleep for once, and so snatches a brief respite? . . . Take 
it, Mr. Hoyland; take it while you can. . . . For what is 
the mud but the dust of many graves? And where shall 
any rest be found for 'the bitter in soul’ ?” 

Hoyland gave a short laugh. "You’re in a melancholy 
mood, Mrs. Clayton,” he said; but, for all that, he was 
chilled — in some vague way scared — ^by her words, by her 
manner ; the fashion in which her blind eyes seemed, by their 
disregard, to make him, leave him,, of so little account. 

Heavens, what a household to find oneself among! A 
hoyden with a stick, walloping plowboys ; a mad woman; 
a half-baked lout of a boy! Even in the warm seclusion of 
the study, bent close over the fire, with a cigarette, he 
shivered. Somehow or other he must have taken a chill; 
one did not have that sensation of cold water trickling down 
one’s back for nothing. 

Anthony was bent over his books, his wide mouth twisted 
all to one side with the effort of concentration. He had a 
trick of holding his pen a little on one side, so that it made 
a scratching sound as it traveled over the paper. That was 
one of the^ things which all utterly common people did — 
wetted their finger as they turned the pages of a book, 
scratched with their pens — thought Hoyland, and turned up- 
on him in a fury, finding some relief in self-assertion, abuse. 


CHAPTER IV 

The bay mare had been clipped, and with this transforma- 
tion something at once more ordered and more alert had crept 
into her bearing. There was a clean-limbed, aged gray hun- 
ter in the sta,ble, which Diana rode. It had been her father’s, 
and, excepting for Anthony, no one else ever crossed its 
back; but Hoyland was made free of the bay. She was, 
indeed, as much as he could manage with his maimed hands, 
and he occasionally rode her upon fine afternoons — those 
interminable afternoons which at times drove him to the 
thought that it would be a change to keep his pupil at his 
studies through the entire day; there, anyhow, was some 
sport of alternately tormenting and dazzling. It amused him 
to try every sort of corrosive upon the boy, though it was 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


141 


piquing to find him so much true gold, that, as yet, nothing 
had really stuck, blurred, for more than an hour or so, a day 
at the most ; besides, he was so difficult to get at, so incurably 
shy, drawing back within himself. Still, he was more largely 
influenced by what he read than by what he heard; was 
simple enough to attach immense weight and truth to the 
printed matter. 

Sometimes Hoyland thought that he would keep worming 
on and on at him till he had routed him out of his shell, held 
him at his mercy — a winkle on a pin; then he grew tired of 
the whole thing, could scarcely bear the sight of the boy. 
After all, Anthony was nothing to him ; it was Diana whom 
he wanted. One of two things was open to him : he might 
torture her brother, as one may torture a little animal so 
that it cries out, attracts attention; or he might seem to be 
so good to him, for him, that the girl’s gratitude would be 
aroused. As it was — Oh, curse her! with her half-aloof 
air of grave consideration and courtesy ! 

She had ridden with him once over the high, heathy 
uplands, from which they could look down at Chatsworth, 
sulking in its park. She rode cross-legged with long stirrups 
— as her namesake might have ridden, with the easy pose of 
a huntress — “chaste” — damnably chaste! — “and fair”; very 
thoughtful for her companion, keeping back her gray mount 
with its longer stride, in case the bay should pull too heavily 
upon his hands, pointing out all the places of interest. It 
had been a wild, windy day, with sweeping gray clouds and 
a damp coldness in the air; the tight knob of misty dark 
hair at the back of her head, her very eyelashes, were dewed 
with the moisture which was, at times, wrapped close around 
them, then flung down in varying strata across the plains far 
below where they rode. 

Hoyland could not have said why he remembered that ride, 
compared it with all others taken alone, or in the company 
of his pupil. But remember it he did, though the way in 
which Diana had talked of crops, growth, stock — then, 
quitting her own interests, questioned him politely upon his 
own affairs — drove him to that state of blank exasperation 
which so often overcame him in her presence; and he was 
seized with a desire to recount some utterly lewd, personal 
experience, to prove that he was at least a man, not a mere 
automaton. 

Was she utterly without life, sex, feeling? he wondered. 


142 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


The coolness, the self-possession of her when she drew 
rein in the farmyard, upon their return journey; question- 
ing the herd about a cow, which groaned heavily in one of 
the byres, amazed him. 

“She was too small to mate with that bull — we shouldn’t 
have done it. She’ll suffer — and the calf, too. Ten tO' one 
we’ll lose it.” 

She did not attempt to lower her voice. There were other 
details; she discussed them anxiously, and yet as easily as 
though she were speaking of one of her mother’s headaches. 

Another day Hoyland encountered a burly, farmer-like 
individual upon the door-step in conference with Nanny. 
He had a bill for Miss Clayton, but it seemed that no one 
knew where she was to be found. “An’ yet she won’t have 
nothing run on,” declared the man. “It ain’t my wish to 
come worritin’; the money’s safe enough with a Clayton, 
I know that.” 

As it happened, Hoyland knew where Diana was to be 
found, and volunteered to take the note to where she 'was 
planting out young cabbages in the upper kitchen-garden. 

She had dug and prepared the ground, and now — her 
course made straight by a tautly-pegged string — was dibbling 
holes with the pointed shaft of an old spade ; dropping a limp 
young plant — of which she carried a number in an old fish- 
ing-basket hung over her shoulders — into each of them with 
one hand ; then pressing the earth close about the stem with 
the other. 

Hoyland had watched her from his bedroom window, 
exasperated by the calm method of her every movement. 
To go on, and on, and on, planting cabbages in holes ! Lord, 
what a life ! Now, nearer to her, his impatience was turned 
to disgust as he saw her pick up a large, obscene-looking 
worm and throw' it on one side, with her bare hand covered 
in chocolate-brown mold. 

She looked up and smiled, with that preoccupied, half- 
tender air that he had so often noticed upon her face when 
she was busied over any young things, either plants or 
animals. 

As Hoyland handed her the paper, she glanced at it with 
dismay. “I can’t touch it with these hands. Smooth it 
out for me, will you?” she said; then bent forward and 
read the brief announcement, neatly worked out in purple 
ink, frowning a little, her brows contracted, for she was a 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


143 


trifle short-sighted. It was perfectly explicit: “For the 
services of the bull, Blackboy,’" upon such-and-such a date. 
Hoyland’s eyes sparkled maliciously as he watched her face, 
but there was not so much as the shadow of any confusion 
upon it when she raised it to his. 

“Oh, old Glaisher! The fee for the bull. I wonder if 
you would mind, Mr. Hoyland? There’s some loose silver 
and a couple of pound notes in the top drawer of my writing- 
table. It’s guineas, isn’t it ? Perhaps you’ll settle with him; 
it will save my leaving my work, washing my hands.” 

What was one to think of such a girl ? — Oh, well, Hoyland 
did think, thought and thought; presupposed the more 
human application of such knowledge, and all the while 
knew that he was wrong. 

It was a week or so after this that — returning from a 
ride just in time for the hated high-tea — he was putting 
down his cap and whip in the hall, when he heard a 
loud, grufflsh woman’s voice: “Of course, any one would 
notice him, a cut above most of the people in these parts. 
But temper, my dear! Talk of temper — that flogging sort 
of mouth, for all its Belvedere Apollo curve. See him? 
Oh, in Buxton, some time last week. Miss Hervey was driv- 
ing me, and so intent upon looking as though she saw no- 
body, it was impossible not to notice him — making a proces- 
sion of one down Spring Gardens!” 

“I don’t think he’s bad-tempered.” It was Diana’s voice, 
and Hoyland knew that it was himself of whom they were 
speaking ; the door into the hall was wide open, every word 
audible. “He seems very quiet, almost indifferent — ^too 
indifferent for temper. But, all the same, it’s rather restful. 
I’m sure he’s very clever, a man of the world. Oh, yes, 
Carrie, you are right there : quite a different sort of world ! 
However, we all like him — except for poor old Nanny, who 
has a sort of mortal antipathy; but I think that’s partly 
Mother’s fault.” 

“I don’t like him.” It was Mrs. Clayton who spoke, with 
quiet decision. “And I’m not alone, either — they none of 
them like him.” 

“My dear, who do you mean by ‘none of them’?” It 
was the stranger’s voice again. 

“Well, look at the dogs: your namesake, Carrie, and 
all the others; the people about the place — people who 
never reason themselves into anything. Oh, and more than 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


144 . 

that! The earth, which draws back and snarls at him; 
the sky, which holds him pinned beneath it — never enfolding, 
bending; the wind, the trees — ” 

“You’re an odd fish, Lucy.” 

“ — But most of all, the earth : the trees and the earth, 
they conspire — they’ll have him, between them.” 

“They’ll have us all, I fancy — ^best oak, silver handles, 
name-plate; and six- foot-by-two — or whatever it may be — 
o’ sod. But it won’t bear thinking of, Lucy. Diana, my 
dear. I’ve a passionate desire for some of that ham. — Why 
will they never let me have ham at tea in my own house ? — 
ham and watercress an’ all.” 

The speaker broke off as Hoyland entered the room, and 
stared at him frankly, with a pair of very small, very bright 
eyes set like two black beads amid a vast expanse of weather- 
beaten face, three chins and an undisguised mustache: 
an immense, solid bulk of a woman, devoid of all refinement 
of feature, coloring, form; and yet with that unmistakable 
air of being, despite all this, “some one” ; the secret of which 
remains unknown save to a very few Englishwomen of the 
bluest possible blood. — “We were talking of you,” she 
remarked coolly, as Diana introduced them — “Mr. Hoyland, 
Lady Caroline Stendall — ” 

“I’m afraid I must plead guilty to having overheard 
something of the sort.” Hoyland was surprised: this was 
not the sort of friend — and evidently so familiar a friend, 
that even the girl called her by an abbreviated Christian 
name — with whom he would have credited the household at 
Ox Lee. 

“Ah, well, now you know what we think of you the 
ground’s clear — ^no need for any inanities. Still, you don’t 
quite come up to the Rectory report, let me tell you.” 

“What was that, may I ask?” 

“Sweet, ‘perfectly sweet’ — Still, if you can cut ham, 
thin — really thin — ” 

“ ‘Thin as remembered kisses after death,’ ” answered 
Hoyland, and Lady Caroline laughed, throwing back her 
head, and opening her mouth like a man. “Good I very good ! 
There was precious little religious teaching in our family; 
but this cutting the ham — there was a point of ritual I My 
father never really forgave my cousin’s husband — ” a jerk 
of the head showed that she was alluding to Mrs. Clayton — 
^'because he hollowed the ham when they first came to stay 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


145 


with us as an engaged couple. We thought he would hate 
the idea of trade; and so he did, until the ham episode, 
then he thought of nothing else. Hams and foxes — ^the 
only two things he held sacred. Do you remember that 
little catechism, eh, Lucy? — We were brought up together, 
you know, Mr. Hoyland — ‘What is the greatest sin in the 
world?’ ‘Murder.’ ‘What is the worst form of murder?’ 
‘Shooting a fox.’ ” 

“How well I remember Terry Burke — ” began Mrs. Clay- 
ton. The clear ring had gone out of her voice, her color 
came and went. She had edged her chair closer to Lady 
Caroline, laid a snowflake hand upon her stout arm ; and yet, 
despite the manifest uneasiness which came with Hoyland’s 
presence, she made an effort to speak lightly. “How well I 
remember Terry Burke, that funny little man with his brogue. 
They were shooting in the Long Wood — just where the but- 
terfly-orchids grew along that moist hollow — and John Har- 
rish was there, so nervous and short-sighted. — He tipped 
your father once; do you remember, Carrie, how he tipped 
your father? thought he was the gamekeeper? — He must 
have seen something bright brown moving through the under- 
growth; I suppose he imagined it was a bird, or perhaps 
he didn’t mind — anyhow, he raised his gun — do you re- 
member? Oh, Carrie! do you remember” — with her 
shoulder close to her cousin’s, her voice gathered that note 
of pure merriment of which Hoyland had caught an echo 
more than once when she was alone with her children — “how 
Terry ran forward, waving his hat and crying, ‘Shoot me — 
shoot me — for the Lord’s sake, shoot me, if it’s murder yer 
afther !’ ” 

It was then that Anthony came in, with the yellow cur at 
his heels, showing her teeth at Hoyland and making a cir- 
cuitous, sidelong course towards her namesake, whom she 
•greeted with obvious affection. 

“Poor little bitch ! How many pups did she have, eh, Di ?” 
“Eight.” 

“Well, she looks like it — thin as a rake — and called after 
me, too — a disgrace ! I only hope you drowned ’em.” 

“All but two.” 

“An’ hopeless curs they are, I take my oath on that! 
Never had much taste in the matrimonial line, had you, eh, 
old girl?” 

But Carrie the Second, reared up against her knees, show- 


146 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


ing no signs of shame, merely grinned and panted with affec- 
tion, making sidelong movements to lick the hand which 
caressed the top of her sandy head, pulled her uneven ears 
with their tangle of goose-grass seed and burr. 

“No, no, you little beast, I don’t want your kisses, much 
as I love you. What have you been doing with yourself, 
eh, Anthony?” 

“This afternoon? Oh, fishing. My hat, what an after- 
noon, too ! Everything just smells of growth !” 

“Bill says the May-fly are out upon mill stream.” 

“It gets more sun than our stream; there’s no sign of 
them here. But the trout are in perfect condition. I landed 
a beauty, just on a pound, with Greenwell’s Glory, the first 
time I’ve tried it this season. Mother gave me a new rod 
for my birthday. You must have a try with it; a little 
eight-foot greenheart, just the very thing for these narrow 
streams. I wish you’d been there, Carrie ; it was just top- 
ping this afternoon! I saw two orange-tipped butterflies. 
Early, isn’t it?” 

“There are lots of tortoise-shell — ” 

“Oh, yes, but you know they’re always pretty well the 
first, and white cabbage. But orange-tips! — up here, and 
only the second week in May!” 

The boy’s face was glowing, the thin cheeks had a touch 
of bronze, the sensitive mouth stretched to a wide, boyish 
smile. It was evident that he, along with the rest of the 
household, regarded Lady Caroline as an easy pal, capable of 
understanding, entering into every sort of interest or griev- 
ance. Even Nanny, who appeared with a fresh brew of tea, 
had her word, remarking on the dirty paw-marks upon the 
visitor’s skirt. — “That varmint and her pups. — I wonder as 
you’ll ’ave it, me lady, that I do! An’ that destructive as 
they are now, they’re getting about; tore me best hearth- 
brush to pieces on me only yesterday, that’s what they did !” 

Anthony had broken off in his recital, his glance wavering 
towards Hoy land, his smile growing just a trifle uncertain. — 
“All this fishing-talk and stuff bores Mr. Hoyland to tears. 
And no wonder, when one remembers the things he’s seen 
and done. All very well for us, stuck away here, mucking 
about after trout — all very well for a fellow with a crocky 
heart — ■” 

“How is the heart, Anthony?” 

“Oh, miles better. It’s getting all right, will be all right. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 147 

Only Diana fusses if I ride too hard, or anything. An’ as 
to tennis — !” 

“The wonder is that she thinks you worth bothering 
about,” remarked Lady Caroline, as the girl looked up with 
her grave smile ; and then, turning to Hoyland, she began to 
question him about the life which Anthony seemed to picture 
as having been so wonderful ; testing him with the names of 
places, people, putting him through his paces, as he well 
knew. 

At the sound of a motor drawing up to the front door, she 
rose with a sigh, shaking oif the dog, which had, by this time, 
established itself upon her knees. 

“Miss Constance Hervey ! Ah, well, I suppose I must go.” 

“I wonder if she’s had her tea — ” began Diana. 

“Of course she’s had her tea; she’s one of those people 
who always have everything — of the very best, too! A 
woman with a true champagne standard is my secretary- 
cum-chauffeur ; I can tell you that much. Miss Di. Only_ 
to think of it ! If any one had told me I would ever let my- 
self be driven in one of these stinking contraptions — ^they’ve 
not left us a horse in the stables — by a blonde miss with a 
drawl an’ a powdered nose, I’d have given them the lie to 
their faces — four years ago!” 

“But, my word, can’t she just drive!” put in Anthony. 

“Drive! Of course she can drive; do everything — the 
most exasperatingly competent person I ever met in my life. 
Not that I’d be bothered with her for a moment, if only my 
parents had taught me to spell in place of speaking indiffer- 
ent French and worse Italian — a fat lot of use with these 
Women’s Land Army Committees, Red Cross Minutes and 
accounts. National Defense Leagues, and all they expect of 
us these days!” 

It seemed as though they were all talking^ together as they 
moved towards the door. Hoyland, following, saw a finely- 
cut pink-and-white profile, a thinnish mouth, a slightly- 
hollowed cheek, a one-sided sweep of pale-gold hair beneath 
an irreproachably severe little hat, as Miss Hervey turned 
to speak to her employer. Then, as Diana ran down the 
steps, leant over the motor-door for one last word with Lady 
Caroline, she raised her head and swept a careless glance 
across the little group on the steps; allowed her eyes to 
rest upon Hoyland for the merest fraction of a second, then 
fixed them straight above her wheel. 


148 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


“I believe old Caroline leads her an awful life of it/’ re- 
marked Anthony, as the motor bumped its way down the 
ill-kept drive. “Poor little thing! And she’s so awfully 
pretty. Don’t you think she’s pretty?” he added, turning 
to Hoy land with that eager, self -mistrustful air which 
reminded him of a dog not quite certain whether or no to 
wag its tail. 

“Decidedly; quite pretty,” he agreed, though he gave no 
utterance to the remainder of his thought, which was to the 
effect that Miss Hervey was by no means the sort of young 
person to be kept under by Lady Caroline, or any one else. 
He knew that ultra-feminine type too well to be mistaken 
there; had measured to a nicety the appraising glance of 
the greenish-gray eyes. Here was some one who knew his 
world; at least such part of it as was comprised by certain 
studio sets, the Cafe Royal, and the more select of the night- 
clubs. 

A week later there was an invitation to dinner at Setons, 
Lady Caroline’s home: an invitation which included Diana 
and her brother. And in a separate note, a fine, clear hand- 
writing which somehow or other suggested Miss Hervey’s 
profile — very different from the untidy scrawl with no par- 
ticular beginning or end, w'hich still lay open beside Miss 
Clayton’s place when Hoyland came down, late, as usual, 
for breakfast — a formally-worded request for the pleasure 
of his company : it being, as it seemed, an understood thing 
that Mrs. Clayton never went out to any sort of entertain- 
ment. 


CHAPTER V 

Never since he first came to Ox Lee had Hoyland felt 
more at ease, more sure of himself, than he did that night of 
the Setons’ dinner-party. It seemed, indeed, as though the 
mere donning of his immaculately-cut evening clothes gave 
him back something of his old cool sureness and indifference. 

Then Diana, in white, with bare shoulders and satin slip- 
pers, seemed to meet him more upon his own ground : a dif- 
ferent, and hitherto unguessed-at Diana. It was odd to real- 
ize how the girl swayed between those attributes which it was 
evident enough she inherited from her dead father, with his 
force, his crudity, and the finer strain of her mother’s blood. 

Diana’s skin — ^though her hands were easily reddened with 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


149 


cold — was of that clear, milky whiteness which is only seen, 
and even then very rarely, with dark hair and lashes. But 
this had not prepared Hoyland for the beauty of her arms, 
her girlish, softly-curving breast. Her gown, too, of some 
shimmering, crepy stuff, was well made by some one who 
understood her business ; he knew enough about women’s 
clothes to realize this from the way in which it clung to her 
figure over the shoulders, and up under the arms, a matter 
of cut in which the raw country, or even lesser London, 
dressmaker finds herself hopelessly at sea. 

She wore a twisted rope of small seed-pearls round her 
throat, and a pair of old-fashioned ear-rings, also of seed 
pearls, which gave her a more sophisticated air than was 
usual to her. Her white satin slippers lay close to either side 
of her slim feet : if there was anything which Hoyland dis- 
liked more than another, it was a transparent white silk 
stocking and red ankles ; but here the whole effect matched 
the pearls. She was just right, and he experienced a sense 
of relief : he had never been more afraid of disappointment, 
and one could never be really sure of a woman until one saw 
her in evening dress. 

At one time he had stayed about at country houses a good 
deal ; his father’s name, the attraction he himself had for 
women, bringing him more invitations than he cared to ac- 
cept. There had been transitory affairs with married women 
at those sort of houses where they were asked to come and 
bring a man, while the husband went off in the wake of some 
other enchantress : houses where it did not matter much who 
one was, or what one did, so long as one played cards, was 
not ‘^stuffy” or “goody-goody”; and at the same time ran 
oneself into no open scandals. These were the kind of 
women who are not content with possessing a man, but must 
train him to fetch and carry, to lap-dog like acts of devotion ; 
flourish him for all the world to see, and yet count upon him 
to keep his head : women whose brains were in inverse 
ratio to the perfection of their coiffures; such brains as they 
did possess shaped to two fine cones as presented by their 
insistent power of getting all they wanted and playing a 
profitable hand at bridge. 

Hoyland had dropped out of this sort of thing because 
these women, with their cold, self-conscious sensuality — their 
lips to their lovers and their eyes on the clock, for fear that 
they should miss the dressing-bell — who always expected him 


150 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


to be the one to be careful — ^became tiresome beyond words : 
just as tiresome as the frequenters of those more stately 
gatherings , which had been part of his heritage from his 
father; where the guests bored him to extinction. 

They had bored his mother in just the same way, with 
their absorption in killing or growing something or other, 
when the young attache had first taken his Russian bride 
home to England, looking forward with delighted anticipation 
to the effect which her beauty and brilliance would have upon 
country house-parties. But he had been disappointed in 
this, at least, for she had been completely neutralized by that 
curious sullen* dullness which obscured her as by a cloud, 
whenever she was ennuyee. And ennuyee she was ; showing 
it openly, after the fashion of her race, at once the most 
sophisticated and crude of all European peoples. 

As to her son, he had always hated the country, the coun- 
try people with their stupid insistence upon trifles. But he 
had never before been brought up against it in all its naked 
simplicity, as he was at Ox Lee, upon its bare hill-side, amid 
its gray rock and ravine; and it was, without doubt, this 
which accounted for the fact that, although he realized the 
sort of house, dinner, people, whom he was likely to find, 
Hoyland had been glad enough to accept Lady Caroline’s 
invitation. 

But it was, on the whole, better than he had expected. 
The house, the dinner, the greater part of the company — the 
Rector, and his wife and one daughter; a county magnate 
or two with wives and daughters; a gentleman- farmer, a 
stray politician, a secretary for something or other, con- 
descending through his eyeglass ; and a middle-aged bachelor 
peer — were all commonplace enough; but the wine was 
exceptional, and he had the good luck to find acquaintances 
in common — “real people,” as she called them, to differentiate 
from country folk — with the woman whom he took in to 
dinner: acquaintances with a sufficiently comet-like train 
of scandal, forever afloat behind them, to render them more 
interesting in conversation, with its embellishments, than 
they had ever seemed in their own proper, or improper, 
persons. 

Mrs. Vesey Horton — married to a dullish squire with a 
good deal of over-ripe neck — was frankly delighted with 
Hoyland, and invited him to lunch with her one day the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


151 


following week: “Tom will be off to a silly race-meeting — 
of all insipid things commend me to a country race-meeting ! 
— so we really can talk,” was the inducement she held out 
to him. 

Miss Hervey was sitting opposite to them, demure and 
exquisitely fair in a black dress, trimmed with not too many 
'sequines. Glancing at her, Hoyland and his companion 
saw her make a low-voiced remark to the man on her right ; 
followed, with some amusement, his hasty glance from one 
side to another, as if to make sure whether any one had heard 
what was said. “Men know that those sort of women look 
too good to be true, are always wondering if other people 
realize it, too,” was Mrs. Vesey Horton’s comment. Then, 
“Ah, he’s taken the fly!” as Miss Hervey’s partner bent 
over her, his sleek, dark head — running upwards in an 
almost straight line from his neck — whispering, eagerly, 
urgently. 

“Who is he?” 

“Young Yarborough; no sort of a catch, hasn’t got a 
penny to his name: farms — at least, pretends to. Any- 
how, she’s got him on a string, excited and more than half- 
frightened. Likely enough,” she added shrewdly, “using 
him as a decoy of some sort. You’ll generally notice women 
like that, demure hole-and-corner flirts, are bent on some- 
thing entirely opposite to what the casual observer might 
be led to suppose.” 

It was difficult for a stranger to say what Miss Hervey 
might be bent upon. But, later on, Anthony, in his naive 
way, supplied the clew, for directly the men returned to the 
drawing-room she was headed into^ a corner by a tall, ugly 
man, with an aggressive jaw and frightful stammer. 

“Poor Miss Hervey, what a shame I Lord Yeanham’s got 
hold of her, will bore her to death — far away the prettiest 
girl here too. I’ve a good mind to go and attempt a rescue — 
shall I?” He glanced sideways at Hoyland as he spoke; 
glowing, blushing. So pathetically young and shy; yet 
ready for any sort of knight-errantry on behalf of the fair, 
slender girl in black, the top of whose smoothly- waved, 
yellow head was only just visible, cutting a dark curtain 
above her attendant swain’s awkward shoulder. 

<‘It — i-i-it’s all very w-w-w-e-11, but wh-wh-wh-what the 
deu-uce have I d-d-one that you should have su-su-such a 


152 THE LITTLE SOUL 

down on me all of a su-su-sudden !” Lord Yeanham’s half- 
quarrelsome stutter ricocheted across the room. Every one 
could hear what he said, though there was no sound of so 
much as a murmur from Miss Hervey. “I’m hanged if I’ll 
p-p-put up with it ! A-a-after all I’ve done an’ . . 

“Shall I ? I say, shall I ? She’s awfully shy. Any one 
can see that. Lady Caroline’s house and all! She can’t 
snub the bounder as she’d like to do. Oh, the brute 1 Look 
there, now — ” cried Anthony. 

Hoy land threw the couple a glance, and saw Yean- 
ham’s great hand on Miss Hervey’s bare white arm-— 
those sort of men were always pawing. For all that, it 
seemed that the girl, far from resenting, wore it as a sort of 
momentary pledge, was complacent over the publicity of 
the thing; he saw her quick glance of triumph, but no one 
took any special notice, apart from young Clayton — no 
longer like a dog wanting to wag its tail, but all ready to 
“go for the fellow;” though, still sensible of the leash, 
his wonderful tutor’s knowledge of what was the proper 
thing to do; of — Oh, well, of everything. 

“You’ll only get yourself disliked if you interfere with 
people in that sort of way,” remarked Hoyland coldly, and 
turned aside to where the servants were setting out the 
bridge-tables. He had enough of the cub at home, in lesson- 
time; he did not want him here: once he had glanced at 
him across the dinner-table with conscious distaste. If his 
sister could dress so well when occasion demanded, why on 
earth didn’t she see that her brother had some properly-cut 
clothes? he had asked himself, though all the while he 
realized that it was not Anthony’s clothes which were at 
fault, but the fact that he seemed to be growing — sprouting 
out like an animated windmill — in every sort of odd, angular 
direction at once. 

To some people there was charm in the boy’s gaucherie, 
his blushes, the innocent trustfulness of his clear, light-blue 
eyes ; his shrinking back into himself, his plunges forward, 
all eagerness when any one spoke an encouraging word — 
“Good dog, nice dog!” — something at once pleasing and 
pathetic ; something which made people think of their own 
lost youth, with a sigh for themselves, a tenderness for this 
gawky young thing, with all his troubles before him. 

Hoyland, however, had no thought for such sentiment. 
At some time or other he must have been innocent; but, if 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


153 


so, it was too far back for remembrance ; certain it was that 
he had realized more of some sides of life at nine than 
Anthony Clayton at close on nineteen. 

As a very, very small boy, he remembered sitting quietly 
in corners, not because of any natural taste for retirement, 
not that he was not ready to assert himself when there was 
any need for it — and there had generally seemed a certain 
need for it, if he was not to be pushed aside by the all-absorb- 
ing selfishness of his parents — ^but merely because, if he kept 
quiet enough, these queer human animals who frequent Con- 
tinental hotels forgot that he was there; carried on with 
their feints of courtship: feints which, in nine cases out of 
ten, meant nothing more than a desire for excitement: 
behaving in a fashion for which his French bonne would 
have inevitably smacked his hands, or whipped even the dogs. 

His host had moved to his side, feeling it incumbent upon 
him to be polite to this stranger, whom he regarded as a trifle 
too good-looking — “barber^s-blockish” would have been his 
simile, for want of something better. Mr. Stendall was al- 
most as much like a rat-catcher as his wife was like a 
washerwoman; and still with that assured air of being 
something quite dififerent. A friend of Hoy land’s father 
had been used to saying, “People of K.P.,” or “Not quite 
K.P.” — meaning thereby, “of known position ;” and, some- 
how or other, it was impossible not to realize that there 
could be no two opinions about this, with either Lady Caro- 
line or her spouse, unless it might be among the middle- 
classes : workpeople and servants knew only too well what 
was what. 

“Must be dullish for you here,” went on Mr. Stendall, 
after those inevitable preliminary remarks about the weather 
which so surprise foreigners : “But there’s some good trout 
fishing about here — Dovedale, now — awfully shy, darned 
difficult to catch, but fine sport, for all that. And Chats- 
worth : one can always wangle a day’s fishing there, if you 
cared for it.” 

“I don’t fancy it appeals to me, do you know.” 

“A pity; there’s so little to do in the country in the 
summer; dead sort of season, unless you’re interested in 
farming, or anything of that sort. Of course. I’m hardly 
ever at home just now; remount work an’ all that. But 
there’s some fairish rough shooting — rabbits, a few hares 
iiF you — ” Suddenly the little man’s eyes dropped to his 


154 THE LITTLE SOUL 

guest’s right hand, then turned aside. “ — But I’m 

afraid—” 

“Yes; it doesn’t leave one overmuch to do, does it?” 
remarked Hoyland, with smooth civility ; though that strange, 
burning sense of antagonism and revolt, which had aston- 
ished him more than once of late, was hot within him. 
What right had these damned fools, these country bumpkins, 
to patronize, to pity — ? 

“Oh, well, come to that, you’v^ done bigger things than 
potting a few wretched bunnies,” sai Mr. Stendall awk- 
wardly. “I only wish I’d any chance ».f getting out there, 
up to the front, in the thick of thing.s ; but they wouldn’t 
have me — too old, though I tried all i knew. You, now, 
I daresay you could tell me — ” 

“I never went up to the front — chance shell miles 
away — ” Pis indifferent eyes strayed round the room; he 
was bored and determined to show it. “Excuse me, but 
isn’t Lady Caroline — ?” 

He broke off, as his host, obviously glad of any inter- 
ruption, moved across the room to where his better half was 
signaling to him to come and help her make up the bridge- 
tables. Lord Yeanham didn’t care to play, neither did some 
of the younger members of the party. Still, there was just 
the right number for a couple of tables, that was if Miss 
Hervey did not mind sitting out. And, of course. Miss 
Hervey was not the one to make any objection to this 
arrangement, which she accepted with the docility of the 
dependent; although Lady Caroline apologized a good deal 
more than she would have considered necessary in the case 
of any other member of the party — ^being one of those people 
who keep their best manners for the people they most dislike. 
Very different was her peremptory command to her godson, 
Anthony Clayton, whom she adored, and snubbed and bul- 
lied. 

“Go and play us something, Tony, there’s a good boy. 
Not too loud or jumpy, else it will put us all out. What! 
don’t want to? Who cares what you want, I’d like to 
know ?” 

With a shy glance at his tutor, who took no notice of him, 
Anthony slipped away into the drawing-room, from whence, 
after a few moments’ pause, came the sound of Schumann’s 
“Preambule,” tenderly drawn forth from a mellow grand 
by a pair of hands that knew their business, fine, sensitive, 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


155 


sure, backed by a mind that thought, a heart that felt. It 
was the first real music — apart from the elusive notes of 
Mrs. Clayton’s flute, which Hoyland had heard since he left 
London ; and in a pause in his game he asked Lady Caroline 
who it was that was playing, his thought far away from his 
pupil. 

“Why, Tony, of course. Didn’t you hear me tell him to 
play us something? Queer things he chooses, though; no 
go about ’em. I like something to tap your foot to. But 
he’s supposed to play very well — they’re all musical.” 

“Miss Clayton — ?” Hoyland’s eyes strayed to the next 
table, where he could just catch a glimpse of Diana’s white 
shoulders, the back of her neat head, with its soft mist 
of dark hair. 

“Oh, Diana sings — sings like a bird. She used to play 
the fiddle, but I suppose she’s given it up now, with all her 
farming. That’s the worst of this wretched war, gels give 
up — ” 

“Lady Caroline — ” interposed the patient voice of her 
partner across the table. 

“Oh, is it my deal? Sorry, partner.” 


CHAPTER VI 

On the way home — driving through the clear, cold moon- 
light, which Diana faced so unconcernedly in an open trap 
— a white gauzy scarf tight around her head, a thinnish coat 
none too carefully buttoned up to her throat — Hoyland spoke 
of Anthony’s music. 

“I didn’t know he played; how is it I’ve never heard 
him play?” The feeling, the natural talent with which 
young Clayton had touched the piano, endued him with 
quite a new sort of interest in his tutor’s mind. There were 
all sorts of possibilities to people who were really musical ; 
so much more to work upon, as it were. It wasn’t only the 
music which they made, felt ; it was the temperament which 
it presupposed; in this case, an absolutely different phase 
of emotionalism to that with which he had before credited 
the boy. 

“He’s always played, always loved it. We had an idea 
of going to Dresden for a year or more, if it had not been for 
this war — though he would have hated anything like making 


156 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


a profession of it. Too proud? What an odd idea! No, 
just caring too much.'* 

“But how is it he’s never played since I’ve been at Ox 
Lee?” persisted Hoyland. 

“What’s that you’re saying about me?” interposed An- 
thony’s voice from the back seat. 

“Your music — ” 

“Oh, but I say! did you mind awfully? I’d hoped you 
wouldn’t hear. Anyhow, it seemed better than to have 
Carrie — dear old soul as she is — making a fuss, every one 
staring.” 

“He didn’t play before, at home, because he was frightened 
of you,” said Diana, in a low voice, her hands firm upon the 
reins, for Flo was coquetting with her own shadow, an 
immense, lean caricature of a horse, darting on ahead, 
stretched out to an unnatural length before them ; or, gawky 
as a giraffe, climbing the bank, first one side, then another 
— a mocking nightmare of a shadow. 

“Oh, at first — ^but now — ” 

“Even now — steady, Flo — now, only in a different sort 
of way. At first not sure whether he would like you, holding 
back, afraid of giving in to you — Oh, boys are like that; 
talk of girls being shy and reticent ! I was at school, and I 
know; there’s nothing girls mind talking about — nothing 
interests them unless they can, and do, talk about it.” 

“Some girls — ” remarked Hoyland meaningly. 

“Most girls, I think.” 

“What about you, you yourself? You never talk of 
what you think, feel; you never give yourself away, share 
the least bit of yourself with your poorer fellows.” 

“But what have I got to talk about? Nothing ever 
happens to me. What possible interest could any one ever 
find—” 

“The greatest interest, the greatest interest in life. Just 
because you hold yourself aloof, just because you ride apart 
like your namesake, do you imagine that you leave other 
people as unaffected ? That we poor mortals — ” 

He broke off as they drew up at a gate, and Anthony 
jumped out to open it, his shadow shooting out sideways 
across the sloping field which lay to the left of the rough, 
unfenced road. 

The high, full moon filled the misty hollows amid the 
hills with pools of milky whiteness : there were no trees or 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


157 


hedges anywhere near them, no shadows save for their own. 
Of a sudden the indi Terence of the whole scene, so aloof 
from humanity and its needs, the chill unconcern of the 
stripped air, cold and clear, unwarmed, untainted by those 
emanations which arise from any great town; the wide 
stretch of country ; not sleeping, as it should be, as townfolk 
would imagine that it must be, but awake and watching; 
the immensity of sky, unchallenged by a single lighted 
window, the flicker of one solitary street lamp, overcame 
Hoyland, chilling through the warmth which still lingered in 
his veins from Mr. Stendall’s excellent champagne, that 
last whisky-and-soda. 

It seemed that he had always mastered everything in life, 
until it came to that infernal war, which was a universal 
muddle, too much for every one ; but here was something, 
concerning himself alone — though why, he did not know — 
with which he was quite unable to grapple. It was so pre- 
cisely as though he had found his enemy; but who? — • 
what? 

From mere dislike to, boredom with, the country he had, 
during the last few weeks, grown to a state of active ex- 
asperation, intense hatred; and — yes, a sort of terror; as 
of something from which it was almost impossible to escape ; 
not unlike that blind terror which overcame him the night 
when the Germans scooped him and his fellows into their 
range, a grim echo of that old childish fear of wide, open 
spaces. As some men might, in moments of desolation, 
long for the arms of wife or mother, he longed for close- 
pressed houses, narrow streets — a jutting wall, a chimney- 
stack — anything to break that menacing, wide-stretching 
arch of sky. 

It was an absurd fancy, but it seemed as though, at any 
moment, a clutching hand might scoop down upon him, 
against which his maimed left hand, the other silly sham— 
and not only that, but all that there was to him, body, mind, 
and what people chose to call soul — ^would be absolutely 
incapable of putting up any sort of a fight; just tweaking 
him away out of the world, like that man at Sotteville-sur- 

Mer. . 

The thought came, and was gone again almost before 
Anthony was back in his seat behind them— but he was glad 
of the feel of Diana’s firm arm against his shoulder, as she 
drew the rein to keep Flo from breaking into a canter. 


158 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Perhaps it was all this which robbed him of his usual 
judgment, led up to what happened later that same evening: 
this, or the recurrence of that glow from Mr. Stendall’s 
champagne ; or else, curiously enough — curious because such 
a thing was so out of all keeping with his character — the 
living remembrance of that unparalleled sense of loneliness, 
desertion. 

Disinclined for bed, he threw a few logs on to the gray 
ashes of the study fire, and sat down by it to smoke — smoke 
and brood. Carrie and the Aberdeen — a person of set affec- 
tion and stubborn temper, Mactavish by name — had met 
them in the hall upon their return. The dogs were not 
allowed upstairs, and the two had sat desolate on the mat, 
as Diana and her brother, candle in hand, moved upwards 
through the surrounding darkness ; robbing them of all that 
made life worth living for a good eight hours or more. 

It was then that Hoyland put out a tentative hand, snapped 
his fingers, offering them the hospitality of his own fireside ; 
though why he could not have said, for in general he hated 
dogs: “Dirty, smelly brutes, ready to fawn upon every 
one, any one.*’ Devoid of constancy himself, he condemned 
the lack of it in brute beasts — faithful friends were as often 
as not a nuisance, human constancy a species of mental pa- 
ralysis. But even dogs were not always fickle, ready to 
fawn, for Carrie shrank aside from his hand, growling; while 
Mactavish, after one glance of contempt, turned towards the 
deserted stairway, and laid his chin upon the first step, with 
a long sigh, as though settling himself for the night. 

Hoyland, finding him still there an hour later, kicked him 
savagely to one side. His candle, a new one, flickered in 
the draught which swept down from some open door, hesi- 
tated for a moment, and then went out. Thus, having no 
matches, he stumblei up the remainder of the stairway as 
best he could, cursing such God-forsaken places, where the 
lamps were all put out at ten, where there was no electric 
light, no gas — no anything which made life tolerable. 

Then, just as he felt his way cautiously on to the landing, 
Diana came out of her mother’s room — Diana by sunlight, 
by moonlight, by candle-light, but never, never by electric 
light ; that was"* unthinkable, he realized it now — Diana in 
her white dressing-gown, with her hair in long plaits, as he 
had seen her that first night. 

She gave him a little smile as she closed the door behind 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


159 


her. It seemed as though she were in a dreamy, contented 
mood, as softened as a mother who has just soothed her 
child to sleep; such a mood that she took his interest for 
granted, as though he were one of the family. At first she 
had not liked him ; but now, as she told Lady Caroline, she 
was beginning to depend upon him, found a sort of rest 
in his sameness. 

“Poor mother ! she never settles down when we are out. 
She was playing her flute — ^but it’s all right now we’re back. 
Good night, Mr. Hoyland.” 

“No, by God, no!” She had moved a step or two away 
from the door, but he caught her against the wall — while 
she stared at him in amazement. His usually pale, in- 
different face was flushed, his drooping lids raised above 
hot, devouring eyes, which left her face for her neck, as he 
dropped his candle and caught at either side of her dressing- 
gown, hanging loose from her shoulders — white as that 
darnation moon, Diana, her namesake ! “I wonder if you 
are alive, you beautiful thing! If you ever have been alive ! 
‘Good night, Mr. Hoyland,’ ” he mocked, with an ugly 
laugh. “ ‘Good night, Mr. Hoyland.’ — No, no, my child 
■ — Diana — Diana, chaste and fair! There are some good 
nights which need no words— later, oh, yes, later, these may 
— will — must come. But for now, just for now, this — and 
this — and this — ” 

He had her in his arms, pressing her back against the wall, 
kissing her cheeks, eyes and mouth; holding her so that, 
despite all her strength, she was unable to break free until 
he bent his lips to her breast. 

“You’re mad — you must be mad!” By some instinct 
she had held on to her candle, and he could see that even 
then, though her face and neck were marred with red patches 
where he had kissed her, she was not blushing; she even 
remembered her mother, spoke low, gave one glance at the 
closed door; then turned again, staring: not touched or 
moved, only half scared, but wholly amazed, as she might 
have been by the sudden assault of some animal which 
she had grown to regard as friendly. 

“If one didn’t realize something of what you’ve been 
through, what a beast one would think — Oh, but what 
beasts war does make of some men!” she cried, one hand 
holding the folds of her dressing gown close to her throat ; 
outraged, yet still making* excuses more than half solicitous. 


160 THE LITTLE SOUL 

Something must be wrong ; people didn’t behave themselves 
like that — normal people. 

As Hoyland stumbled along the passage to his room, up 
and down those break-neck little groups of steps, which are 
common to such houses, he glanced back from the first 
corner, and sav/ that she had turned ; was standing holding 
the candle high in her hand to light him on his way — him. 

He was beaten. First the war; then this damned, dis- 
passionate country; and now this girl — a country girl! ^ 

He did not mind the thought of her struggles, anything 
she said ; that might well be part of the game. No, it went 
far deeper than that. What he did mind was the fact that 
the feel of her lips, her breast, pressed close against his own, 
had given him no thrill of any sort; no feeling apart from 
that sense of baulked exasperation with which one rattles 
the handle of a locked door. 

And the fault was his; he realized that; couldn’t help 
realizing it, knew too much to miss it. There was something 
in this girl, something which he could not get at ; something 
which he had either lost the power — or never had it — of 
possessing: a depth of passion, which — and it was strange 
how, with the sense of futility, the realization of this came 
to him for the first time — nothing he said or did could touch. 


CHAPTER VII 

It was the first day of June, and the solemn black clock up- 
on the study mantelpiece had just struck twelve. Master 
and pupil had passed an unusually tranquil morning, and An- 
thony was at the end of his work ; though he had got through 
it in a sort of fatigued dream, oddly sapped by the book 
which his tutor had left, apparently by mistake, in his room 
a couple of days ago — Weininger’s “Sex and Character,” 
which he had picked up, glanced at out of curiosity, and 
then been unable to put down. For the last two nights 
he had read until it was close on morning, then dropped 
plumb into a deep, dream-laden sleep, awaking to a sense 
of dissipation and weariness, such as he remembered when 
he was a small child and had been unable to keep away from 
a box of chocolates : made up his mind not to touch another, 
and, growing from delight to loathing, still ate on and on, 
until he was sick. 


161 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

On this second morning he was so done, it is certain that, 
had Hoyland been in one of his bitter, harrying moods, it 
would have ended in disaster; as it was, he got through, 
somehow or other, with that part of his consciousness which 
still remained untouched. 

As the clock finished striking, he gathered up his books, 
glanced at his tutor. “IVe finished the translation — is that 
all, sir?’’ 

“Yes, thafs all; you can go.” 

Once outside, he made for the farmyard ; then, after 
questioning the men who were lading manure, took his way 
toward the sheep-pens, lying in the shelter of a barn a quar- 
ter of a mile away, where Diana was busy drafting out some 
of the earlier lambs, with the help of the old shepherd, 
Daniel Haele. 

It was a day of such brilliance that the whole scene, hills, 
dales, the vivid bronze-green of young oak and sycamore, 
the springing fields of oat and barley might have been 
enameled upon copper, each single color distinct, as though 
without atmosphere. At one side of the old barn, with its 
gray roof, was the crude green of turnips, their pungent 
stench mingling with the smell, of the ewes, whose uneasy 
bleatings sounded clear as a bell upon the still air. 

Diana was flushed and serious: some of the lambs were 
ready for market, and she hated this business of choosing 
out the victims. Old Haele was garrulous about them; 
he took the butcher’s knife, the more distant prospect of roast 
with mint sauce, as a matter of course. He had tended them 
as though they were his own children, night and day, through 
the fierce, reluctant spring which comes to the Peak district 
as maternity to some women— a thing to be fought against, 
resented, deferred to its uttermost limit; but for all that, 
he loved a tender bit of loin for his Sunday dinner, never 
even thought of associating it with his nurselings. 

His reminiscences did nothing to weaken himself, though 
they brought the tears to his young mistress’s eyes. “That 
un wur let fall afore we ’ad time ter get th’ old un to the 
fold — dug ’em both outer the snow, to me waist near about.” 
Again: “That un there were real naish, and no mistake, 
neither ; the missis ’ad un indoors afront o’ the kitchen fire 
for the best part o’ a sennight.” “This chap — real spry now 
’e do be — one o’ three ’e was, an’ so weak as ’e couldn’t not 
take the titty; brought un up with me finger dipped in 


162 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


milk, I did, and then with the bottle. That’s^ wot makes 
un so saucy-loike, rubbin’ against my knee an’ all — Get 
outer that now, you varmint, or I’ll be treading yer under 
foot, sure as eggs is eggs !” 

It hurt Diana. If only farming could be all rearing, and 
cossetting an(> no killing, she would have felt content. In 
any lower-lying or less bleak portion of the country she 
might have increased the proportion of arable land; but at 
Ox Lee this was scarcely practicable. As it was, she had en- 
deavored to meet the appeals of the Food Control by put- 
ting down a few dozen acres in wheat, which had never 
before been attempted in those parts; with reason, as she 
well knew, though the agricultural authorities condemned 
it as mere obstinacy ; for tradition in rural districts is seldom 
to be found without good reason at the back of it, and wheat 
in the North Derbyshire heights, with their reluctant spring, 
has not time to ripen to harvest ere the first frost, the heavy 
rains of autumn, are upon it. 

She was glad to see Anthony, and slipped her arm through 
his. “Come, let’s go down to the bottom of Three-acre 
Field and see how they are getting on with the drain.” 

She moved quickly and springingly at his side, her very 
touch was full of firm reassurance; then, of a sudden, she 
cried, “Let’s run ; there’s no one to see us,” and started off 
down the steep slope, with its tussocks of rough grass, cam- 
omile and rest-harrow ; picking up her feet cleanly, keeping 
her head well back. In her leggings and short skirts she ran 
like a boy, only more lightly. Anthony’s long legs flew out 
to either side of him like a colt’s; every now and then he 
caught his foot upon a clod and stumbled forward, but for 
all that he kept ahead of his sister. 

Half-way down the field was a spring, grown round with 
shining kingcups, petering out in a rush-grown trickle to the 
edge of a spinney where Reuben Haele, old Daniel’s son, 
was digging a new drain, filling the shallow trough with loose 
rubble. The hedge which bounded the spinney was brilliant 
with the green and white of hawthorn. The spinney itself 
was carpeted with bluebells and wood-mercury. There 
was the sound of rooks among the elms, as preposterously 
immersed in their own affairs as though this were the primal 
spring, the first mating of the universe ; while a cock- 
pheasant stuttered out his eager note of defiance, love, 
delight. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


163 


Anthony was glowing from head to foot ; all that weary, 
deadening ache had gone from out of his limbs, scattered 
loose upon the hillside. Months later he remembered that 
hour, remembered how happy he had felt ; remembered how 
he and his sister had laughed at the pert airs of the water- 
wagtails, swaggering about in their clean black-and-white, 
with that oddly consequential Lilliputian stride — walking, 
while other birds were content to hop — fly-catching over that 
spot where the thin stream from the spring gathered to a 
shallow pool, dotted with gray and green stones. 

Never a single thought of “Sex and Character” until he 
went up to his own room that night, when he glanced side- 
ways at the red-covered volume, stuffed it away out of sight 
in the drawer among his socks ; then, after an hour’s tossing, 
lit his candle, got up and glanced through the book in fever- 
ish haste to find some special passage. 

What was it Diana had said that morning? “It’s all 
very well to tell us to grow this and that, all of a sudden; 
they ought to know that the ground has to be prepared.” 

They didn’t know — they, the Government, taking no 
thought for the reasonable exactions of Nature — any more 
than Charles Hoyland would have known, thought. But 
human nature — ^that was another affair ; that he knew 
through and through: “As any one might know it,” or so 
he said, “if only they’d base their expectations low enough, 
begin in the cellars ; the upper stories are mostly empty.” 

Hoyland, left alone in the study, sat staring out of the 
window, idly tapping the table with the end of a pen. The 
long day stretched out in front of him like a desert ; the hard, 
clean colors of the outer world wearied him. In spite of the 
fine air his health did not improve. He was restless, bored ; 
often enough curiously tired, he who had never known what 
it was to weary. The thought of Diana was beginning to 
possess him. Perhaps he had never been so close to real love 
in his life, and yet there was that continual sense of irrita- 
tion which showed how largely it was mingled with pique. 
A sense of deep, cold anger overcame him whenever he 
thought of that ignominious evening when he had attempted 
to steal a kiss, accompanying it with such insolence as she 
could scarcely have understood, or else it was certain that 
he would not be where he now was. 

He had apologized next day with a sort of mock humility; 
and she had accepted his excuses, quite gravely. It was 


164 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


evident that she quite believed what he said as to the 
faintest taste of spirit going to his head, since he was 
wounded ; and once having forgiven him, put the whole thing 
out of her mind. 

But Hoyland himself could not forget ; and yet to think of 
all the women he had kissed and forgotten! It was as 
strange that he should be the one to remember — and the fur- 
tive touch of the girl’s fresh cheek seemed to be forever with 
him like a perfume, so that he could scarcely look at her with- 
out feeling his lips tingle — as that he should know, at last, the 
shame of repulse. Re who had always boasted that he 
could have any woman for the asking; that he had come 
across no retreat which was not in itself a beckoning. 

And it was not only Diana herself, the thought of her, of 
all that she might mean to a tired man, with her amazing 
freshness, well-balanced vitality — so different from the half- 
hysterical, restless excitement that passed for the same qual- 
ity amid the town-people whom he knew — which exasperated 
Hoyland’s consciousness until it was like an open sore ; there 
was the wonder as to whether other women had proved so 
pliable merely because he aimed low ; because they were that 
sort, would have been the same with any man. Here was an 
idea to rasp his vanity ; but there was even more to it. 

The memory of these other women was forever pushing 
itself in between himself and this girl; there was not a 
thought of her which he was able to keep unsoiled by some 
odious comparison. He was like a sponge, so full of dirty 
water that every clear drop which falls upon it is fouled. 
He was sick to death of all those old ways of love, not be- 
cause they were bad, but because they had become boring. 
He had run through the entire gamut of vice ; if there was 
one ultimate joy^ left, it might be found in a clean, fresh 
palate ; to enjoy as a boy enjoys, to hope as a boy hopes, to be 
free of memories ! But how was it possible ? When he was 
with Diana he saw her more or less as she was — though his 
vision was always a little distorted — a creature of the open 
air, the clear heights, simply wise, infinitely kind. But alone 
with his thoughts, she was dragged through brothel and bou- 
doir; there were creatures in the London night-clubs, in 
Brussels, Paris, Vienna, Buda-Pesth, forever elbowing, rub- 
bing the bloom off her ; no end to the tawdry procession of 
light loves, stretching back almost tO' his boyhood. 

For many years Hoyland had managed to carry a certain 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


165 


freshness into each succeeding amour ; here, where the object 
of his desire was fresh as the spring itself, he realized that 
his every thought was vitiated, poisoned at the spring. 

He might win her ; he still retained so much self-confi- 
dence ; but what would he not lose in the winning ? It would 
be like snaring a wood-nymph, painting her face, dyeing her 
hair, tricking her out in the foul finery of a pawn-shop. The 
essential nymph might still remain, at the back of it all, but 
even then not for him; one does not catch butterflies with 
a pig-net. 

Mrs. Clayton was out in the garden ; he could see her from 
the window, pacing to and fro upon the lawn. The wonder 
was that she could walk so near to the edge of the sunk 
fence and never fall over it ; but, come to that, as he realized 
'Watching her, she never actually stepped upon any of the 
sparse clumps of late daffodils which still pierced the unten- 
ded grass. He was getting very interested in Mrs. Clayton ; 
sometimes he tried to set a limit to the things she realized, 
saw, with that strange, inward vision of the blind ; but every 
time he thought he had her there would be some fresh pique 
to his curiosity. This not stepping upon the flowers, for in- 
stance, was something which he had never before realized. 

“My God,” he said to himself, “I don't believe that the 
woman’s blind at all ! It’s a pretense, a pose.” 

He said this, had said it before ; but of course he knew that 
it was not true, and it was one sign of his disordered nerves 
that he even pretended to such a thought, for in the old d4ys, 
whatever he had been or done, he had never attempted to 
deceive himself. And to actually repeat the preposterous 
statement ! It was like an uneducated person shouting to a 
foreigner who does not understand his tongue. 

He went out of the study, through the hall lying at the 
eastern side of the house — cool and shady, with wide-open 
doors and the gray ashes of a wood fire dozing in the gra,fe, 
then round the outside of the house and across the lawn. 

Quite close to the path the grass was mown smooth for a 
width of twenty feet; and here at first sight it looked as 
though the green were close-speckled with black ; but it was 
only the dark calyxes of the daisies which turned their 
white-and-gold faces all one way to the sun, like the units 
of a vast, though pigmy, army, pressing forward, with their 
shields upon their backs. 

Mrs. Clayton stood still as Hoyland approached; for a 


166 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


moment it seemed that she trembled, though very slightly. 
Then, to his surprise — for she never spoke to him of her own 
accord, answered his remarks or questions with a hurried, 
timid air — she addressed him, quite calmly, reasonably. 

‘Tt is very pleasant out here; will you walk with me a 
little, Mr. Hoyland?’^ 

“Of course; but won’t you take my arm?” He made 
the suggestion maliciously, though he knew that she would 
refuse, though he wished to have something of her mind as 
it was when she was undisturbed, at peace ; knew perfectly 
well how she hated to feel him too near to her. But it 
seemed that, as he could not hurt Diana, he must hurt some 
one belonging to her; he even touched her sleeve, felt the 
way in which she vibrated away from him. “Come now, 
Mrs. Clayton, why are you so set against me ? Can’t we be 
friends ?” 

They were standing close against the one cedar which 
dominated the neglected lawn with its wide sweep of boughs. 
As he hesitated, waiting for Mrs. Qayton to speak. Hoy- 
land, usually so oblivious to everything in nature, was con- 
scious of that curious tick-tick-tick — like a multitude of 
minute clocks — which hangs around these trees during the 
first hot days, the bursting of innumerable tiny cells, or the 
note of certain insects. 

The sound, small as it was, got upon his brain, irritated 
him almost beyond bearing, so that it was with difficulty he 
prevented himself from breaking in upon Mrs. Clayton’s 
thoughts, anxious though he was to drive her to some direct 
answer by his silence. At last she spoke, her face turned 
toward the stretch of open country which lay beneath them. 
It was always like that; she looked away from him. And 
yet it could not be her eyes which she wished to avert. 
“One would think I stank!” Hoyland declared to himself 
more than once,* exasperated by her attitude. 

Her answer now, when it did come, amazed him. Yes, he 
had been right, there was no knowing how to take her, what 
she would say, do, seem to see, next. 

“I don’t think I’m set against you — ^that isn’t it. You 
don’t understand. I’m sorry for you, for it must be dread- 
ful — oh, how dreadful! When I think what it is to me, 
what must it be to you ! — To you who carry it, cannot get rid 
of it!” 

Oh, of course, she was mad. “Rid of what, may I ask ?” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


167 


“Yourself, the burden of what you have made of yourself. 
All the things that are in your mind — all your memories. 
Not regretted, never regretted, but cumbering, poisoning.’^ 

The words came so pat upon what he had been thinking, 
not more than ten minutes earlier, that Hoyland was startled. 
It was as uncanny as though some one had casually put a 
hand inside his shirt through to his bosom, taken out his 
heart, held it upon an open palm, and said : “There !” 

He gave a little laugh, which sounded oddly strained, even 
to his own ears. “Thank you, Mrs. Clayton, but all the 
same I’m doing nicely, as the doctors say.” 

For a moment or so they walked on in silence ; reached the 
end of the lawn and turned. “How do you know when to 
turn ?” 

“I feel the warmth of the trees, smell the laurels.” 

“Ah!” There was another pause, then Hoyland began 
again. “So you think me a bad lot, is that it ?” 

“Yes, you are bad. Perhaps it is not your fault — who 
knows? — ^but it’s dangerous; dreadful for you — of course, 
dreadful for you — and dangerous for others; that’s why I 
wish you would go away. It is cruel of me, in one way, for 
it might do you good to be here. But no, it is past 
changing — ” 

“Chronic, eh?” Hoyland laughed; he was sure that it 
was all very amusing, and yet deep down in his inner con- 
sciousness he realized something like fear. 

“I don’t know — I can’t say, I — ” began Mrs. Clayton 
confusedly. “How can I know, seeing nothing? — But I 
feel — I feel. I feel it here.” She touched her breast. 
“There are currents of fate in the very air; an inevitable 
consequence to every step we take, our every thought, word ; 
something which will have us at one with Nature, forever 
watching and waiting. If we don’t try to understand the 
meaning of life, the way the stream flows, what are we to do ? 
We are never alone; never, never alone . . . encompassed 
about. Yes, that’s it ; encompassed about. If you once set 
yourself against everything you are worn away — ^you, the 
real you, frayed to nothingness. 

“Oh, I can’t explain what I mean. How can I explain?” 
she moved her head uneasily— “to you, set there so blankly 
hard ? How can one ever explain anything excepting to the 
people who already half know it? How — ” 

Suddenly it seemed as though she had lost her momentary 


168 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


sureness ; she broke off, with the air of a spider at the end of 
a single strand, helpless in a gale of wind ; hesitating, wring- 
ing her hands, half-turned away from him. 

“Oh, don’t you feel — don’t you know it? — the infinite 
entanglement with everything else in life, by which, with 
which, alone we live. We are all part of a community; if 
we are not in fellowship with all the members of it — the 
earth, the air, running water, trees, birds, beasts, they’ll 
hound us out of it, one way or another. You, you now. — 
If there is nothing left of you beyond the body, and if the 
other sane creatures of the world, the very elements, are 
against you, what is there for you to do, where is there for 
you to go ? With no thread of meaning in your life, what is 
there left for change? This only. The wind and the sun 
and the earth which you have despised having their will of 
you at the end; a pinch of the dust of you driven into the 
crack of some wall, molded amid the clay of a swallow^s 
nest, with other dust around the root of some plant, or 
trodden into the earth itself. Nothing more — nothing, noth- 
ing. Nothing to go on, nothing to change. The soul, that 
valiant little porter bearing its load, long, long ago crushed 
out of existence. 

“Oh, you — ^you — you who are always poking and pry- 
ing — ” Suddenly she turned towards him, pointing. 
“Don’t you realize how all the big things of life have passed 
you by? Even you, you must feel that. Perhaps it was 
always too late for you — just the load and no porter to raise 
it. But for us others — that’s why I ask you to go — ” 

Hoyland had taken out his cigarette-case, was lighting a 
cigarette, gazing at her from under his heavy lids ; wondering 
how soon her family would have sense to clap her into 
a lunatic asylum ; when — God only knows by what an effort 
— she pulled herself together, began again clearly, sanely. 
“To go away; not to change — why should I waste words 
asking you that? The true elements of character — a char- 
acter such as yours — never change ; unless it be from some 
intense outer force, power of evil.” 

“Why not of good, since you believe in good?” 

“Ah, yes, I believe in it; but for all that, it must come 
from the inside — you can corrupt a man from the outside; 
but goodness, in a greater or lesser degree, must always have 
been there, however deeply hidden. There’s no impurity in 
nature. Human beings alone a^e responsible for that — ^pos- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


169 


turing, squinting. Easy enough to foul a clear spring far 
from its source, however clearly it may have risen — ^but if it 
rises salt, brackish, poisonous, nothing can make it pure.” 

“A parable, eh ? On the soul, my soul — a ‘salt, brackish' 
stream. Ton my word, Mrs. Clayton, you're a little hard on 
me.” 

They had reached the cedar-tree again, were standing 
beneath it, the “tick-tick” sharp as a bat’s note upon Hoy- 
land’s ear. Mrs. Clayton had turned ; seemed to be looking 
at him, so straightly that it was almost impossible to believe 
that she did not see him. 

“A-h — your soul! You are fond of saying ‘My soul’ — 
‘Upon my soul’ — but are you so sure you have a soul ?” 

“I thought every one was credited with something of the 
sort — vague enough, in all conscience.” 

“But what do you mean when you use the word ‘soul’ — ‘ 
you — you yourself?” She put the question so quietly, so 
reasonably, and yet in so detached a manner, that it might 
have been one of Hoyland’s college friends challenging him 
to an argument. 

“Well, what is it popularly supposed to mean — the immor- 
tal ego?” 

“Ah — yes — yes. But the mortal must put on immortality. 
It is not inevitable, no sort of a birthright. ‘What is a soul ?’ 
you’ve asked me. Come now, I’ll tell you. A fine thread 
that may be twisted to a rope ; a little flame which, guarded, 
grows to a fire there is no quenching; a tiny seed which 
spreads to a great tree, sheltering innumerable birds amid 
its branches. If the soul does not grow, gather, it flickers 
out; if at the end it is less than the body, it is less than noth- 
ing. To go to God with what you call your soul in your 
hand, your little soul, pinched up between your finger and 
thumb even — so dry, so shriveled and small — the most uncon- 
sidered part of you — to say: ‘Take this; it is worth keeping, 
perpetuating through all ages. I never troubled to make 
much use of it ; but it’s the sort of thing you like — valuable 
because it is Me — The Me — and, of course, immortal.’ 
What would God say to that ? He would say nothing. He’d 
laugh. A soul ? A soul ? No more a soul than a canker’s 
a rose.” 

“Ah, well, have it as you like. Perhaps, on the whole, it’s 
a good thing I realize the value of all such beliefs in a future 
world; the egregious conceit, the total inability to under- 


170 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


stand one’s own place in the universe which they presuppose. 
My body — oh, it’s not what it was, I grant you,” he inter- 
posed bitterly; “but, such as it is, it’s enough for me.” 

“Ah, well; that is you, that’s what you’ve made of life, of 
yourself. Something rigid, fixed for its little allotted space; 
something without growth; something which takes without 
giving, and then of the material only. Come to that, such a 
man has been dead for years ; dead from the time when he 
first found that with all his cleverness he could not accom- 
plish the whole of his desires; from the moment when, tip- 
ping his cup too fast, he caught sight of the lees, thick at the 
bottom of it. Such a man is a mere specter of motion, an 
echo of speech ; where would be the use of perpetuating a 
thing like that? He is neither in the mind of God or the 
heart of man ; he is nothing.” 

“Come now, Mrs. Clayton, at least ‘the evil that men do 
lives after them’ — or so Shakespeare said.” 

“Shakespeare didn’t say that,” she flashed at him, with 
sudden shrewdness ; “he made Mark Antony say it — ^because 
he knew it was the sort of thing he would say. All evil’s 
sterile — it destroys itself.” 

“Ah, well, it’s evident that you think I’m a bad lot, that 
there’s little chance for me, here or hereafter,” said Hoyland, 
shrugging his shoulders, turning a little on one side to light a 
fresh cigarette. “But, after all, there are two sides to such 
an understanding” — he paused for a i.ioment; then added, 
with a sort of cold brutality — for, after all, where did all this 
mad twaddle lead him ? — “I mayn’t know much, be good for 
much, according to you, your theories ; but one thing I do 
know — ^you’re frightened of me, scared to death.” 

“Yes, yes — ” once more Mrs. Clayton hesitated, turning 
her head aside, twisting her hands. “I am — afraid of you.” 

“Because of your daughter, because of Diana ?” — that was 
what he had been aiming at ; that was what he was after — 
Diana — Diana — always Diana. He brought out her name 
scornfully, with studied insolence. But to his surprise Mrs. 
Clayton gave a little laugh; that rippling laugh which 
he had only heard once or twice, clear as the notes of her 
flute. 

“Diana! You can never touch Diana.” 

“Anthony, then; you are afraid of my influence with 
Anthony. Ah, I am right there !” Once again Hoyland saw 
that fine shiver which passed over her when she was dis- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


171 


turbed, alarmed, and knew that he had struck home. After 
all, she was no fool. There were many points upon which 
they might well touch, if she would but have it so — things 
which he knew, and others which she knew. There was no 
end to what they might do between them, he with his will and 
she with her odd powers of clairvoyance. This thought 
mingled with his resentment at that laugh with which she had 
greeted the mention of her daughter’s name, the desire to 
crush her and her crazy impertinence away down out of 
sight, out of mind. So easy, too, for she looked almost in- 
credibly frail, standing there on that vivid green lawn, arched 
over by that cloudless immensity of metallic blue sky ; gray 
dress and gray hair, fine as a cobwd) : delicate hollow of 
cheek turned away from him, with its faint pink flush, 
innumerable, finely-penciled lines. 

“Diana,” he said, “Diana comes next. Meanwhile I have 
the boy here” — he stretched out one hand, palm upwards, 
smiling, then closed his fingers, with the upward gesture of a 
man plucking ripe fruit from a bough and turning, moved 
away from her; leaving her with her arms hung slackly at 
her side, vacant as though he had actually robbed her of all 
hope, everything which steadied and maintained. 

She was mad, of course, mad as a hatter ! Glancing back, 
he saw that she had sat down like a child among the daffodils, 
there in the open, plump on the bare ground. 

He went into the house, crossed the hall, and opening the 
baize door called through it for Nanny, who appeared in a 
coarse hessian apron, her sleeves turned up to her elbows. 

“It’s a fine day,” remarked Hoyland coldly; “but, all the 
same, it was raining last night and the grass must be damp.” 

The woman stared at him, blankly, her dislike unchange- 
ably set in the plain, weather-beaten face with its network 
of red veins, the small honest gray eyes. “How she hates 
me!” he reflected with amusement; life must be getting 
very petty, in the old days he had never so much as thought 
of how a servant regarded him. 

“Of course, it’s got nothing whatever to do with me,” he 
added — after a pause in which it became evident that Nanny 
did not intend to commit herself by any question or remark 
— “but your mistress has chosen to sit down in the very 
middle of the lawn. Her own lawn, I grant, still, unless you 
want a funeral — ” 

Nanny’s face flamed. “You’re the devil himself, that’s 


172 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


what you are !” she cried, and, turning, ran across the hall 
and out of the door, pulling down her sleeves as she went. 

Back in the study Hoyland glanced out of the window. 
Mrs. Clayton was still sitting upon the grass, while the old 
servant knelt at her side, wiping her mistress’s eyes. 


CHAPTER VIII 

It is very characteristic of certain characters to belittle 
what they do not understand. 

The ugly contempt which Hoyland infused into his com- 
munication to Nanny, sHgl as it might seem, was the out- 
come of the baulked feeling which he carried away from that 
talk with her mistress. It was all very well to declare that 
he had come otf best ; but this was not the case. He was 
conscious of that helpless feeling which Jabe’s boy might 
have had pushing against the soft obstinacy of the calf in 
the lane, weeks and weeks ago — ^the first and only time when 
he had seen Diana shaken out of her usual calm. 

One thing Mrs. Clayton had done for him, stimulated him 
to fresh ideas. He resented, scorned her ; but for all that the 
interest in the study of such a character, the suggestions it 
evoked, grew upon him. 

Sometimes, if he kept very quiet, obliterated his personality 
— and there was a curious discovery, that he actually could so 
get rid of that self which frayed upon the blind woman’s 
consciousness — Mrs. Clayton would talk to her children as 
though he were not there, or even include him in the conver- 
sation, as if — well, as if he were some one else ; though it was 
only when he put his real self upon one side, made himself 
void, as it were, that she was sufficiently at ease for him to 
get at anything of her real mind. 

She seemed to have traveled a great deal when she was 
young, to have read widely. He had discounted her as 
knowing nothing whatever of his world; but the fact was 
that she had merely assimilated a different part of it. 

Now and then he went over to Setons, sat talking to 
Lady Caroline, amused at her shrewdness, her odd Vic- 
torianism, with its tang of Georgian coarseness. He knew 
that she thought him more or less what she would have 
called “a bad hat;” crediting him with no particular con- 
science or morality; and yet believed that it was good for 


173 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

Anthony to learn something of the world, have this chance of 
being hardened off a little from the idealism of his general 
surroundings, his mother’s company. For, despite her 
shrewdness. Lady Caroline was very simple ; her idea of a 
“fast man” comparatively primitive and clean. 

It was during one of these visits that Hoyland gathered 
something more of Mrs. Clayton’s history. She had been 
brilliant in the days when girls were not expected to be any- 
thing more than “nice;” when it was part of the general 
creed that men did not care for clever women. 

Likely enough they did not — her class of men, anyhow — 
and it might have been this which drove her into marrying 
Richard Clayton ; anyhow, that was what Lady Caroline 
thought. She had been a great horsewoman, excelling in 
every form of sport ; but she had been more than this, which 
the men whom she met upon those grounds were not. 

She did not marry until she was twenty-eight, had been to 
college, taken high classical honors, traveled with friends 
of her own through Italy and Greece : “The mischief of it all 
iis that she’s always been a little scared.” 

'‘‘Scared of what? — Oh, just scared! One never quite 
Icllew how to take her.” Lady Caroline’s entire face was 
corrugated with a wide-spreading frown. “The nerve she 
Jhad in some ways ! She would sail through the most appall- 
ing examinations, ride anything, go at anything, start off 
anywhere, quite alone — I think it was partly that which made 
jtnen, men of the conventional type, a little shy of her. And 
yet all the time she was afraid ; though I’m blest if I knew 
what she had to be afraid of ; I suppose I shouldn’t have 
noticed anything, only I was so fond of her. It might have 
been that, too, which drove her into Clayton’s arms — his big- 
ness, his sureness, his practical brain — all the traits she 
hadn’t got. Not a bad man, by any means, a good sort, but 
one of those people you must cut into if you want ’em to feel 
— and Lucy knowing what you thought before you realized 
it yourself. He had a way of saying, ‘Ah, you wouldn’t 
understand,’ as though she were stupid. And so she was, in 
some ways ; though he didn’t need to say it, only to feel it — 
trust her to know ! Let me tell you this, Mr. Hoyland ; he 
might as well have been of that class which knocks their 
wives down, kicks ’em in the mouth, as have so much as an 
impatient thought of my cousin Lucy.” 

“She must have been pretty.” 


174 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


“She was lovely! But in the oddest way, like the 
Madonna people What’s-his-name painted — there are any 
amount in Florence — and some in the National Gallery 
in London. Pictures bore me, I can never remember their 
names, the names of the people who paint ’em; though I 
like Landseer; but I noticed these because they made me 
think of Lucy — very long-legged women — little daisies over 
everything, even the sea — ” 

In a flash Hoyland’s mind leapt to what she meant — 
Botticelli. Yes, that was it. That look of hanging ’twixt 
heaven and earth. It was odd that any one so blunt, so half- 
educated as Lady Caroline should have hit upon it. 

He had walked home that evening, meeting Constance 
Hervey in the water-loud ravine which lay across the most 
direct route from Setons to Ox Lee. She amused him, was 
ready for any sort of intrigue; to meet her there was like 
drinking heady wine at a rural picnic. Cool and calculating, 
with a daring wit and clear brain, she arranged all such 
meetings, inaugurating them with the merest quiver of her 
lids when Lady Caroline mentioned some special path 
through the dale. At times it amused Hoyland to make love 
to her, to discover that there were practically no lengths to 
which he might not go in his stories, his innuendoes. Apart 
from this, she pleased his fastidious eye: her well-cut coat 
and skirt of fawn-colored cord, her white silk shirt and natty 
tie, her hair, her shoes, her stockings; the beautifully-kept 
hands, from which she drew a pair of doeskin gauntlet 
gloves, her very cigarette-case, were all perfect in their own 
way, too perfect for remembrance. She was like a little 
animal, a finely-finished little animal, neat as a weasel, no 
trace of soil to her fur. 

Only that morning he had been revolted by the patches of 
brown earth upon Diana Clayton’s rough skirt, evidence that 
she had knelt to tend some small sick animal or plant ; while 
the finger and thumb of her right hand were engrained with a 
greenish stain. He ^yas accustomed to that class of women 
who are forever brushing, filing, polishing and — “Why can’t 
she keep herself tidy — clean, anyhow?” he had asked himself 
angrily, realizing all the while that the open-air scent of 
Diana, brushing carelessly past him, was of the very essence 
of cleanliness compared with the perfume which hung around 
Constance Hervey, her head against his shoulder. After 
all, he was not revolted; he was jealous, horribly jealous 


175 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

of everything to which she gave her thought, her time. 

They were growing increasingly short of men at Ox Lee, 
and on his way to Setons he had seen Diana farrowing with 
two bay horses, across and across the steep side of what was 
known as the Five-Acre Field ; had stood in the far distance, 
rnoodily watching until she reached the sharp elbow of the 
hillside, where she and her horses were cut out against the 
blue and white of the sky ; then flung savagely aside, dipped 
into the somber green and gray depths of the dales. He had 
never felt more like murder; he would have liked to have 
throttled her, stamped her down into the earth, with a “There 
— ^there — ^you loved it, and you’ve got it ; over your face, into 
your mouth ; the only sort of kisses you’d care for.” 

No wonder that the touch of Constance Hervey’s smooth, 
scented hand against his face pleased him ; but, for all that, 
he soon wearied of her company — ^like a dinner of hors-d'oeu- 
vres — and upon this particular day the very moment he left 
her his thoughts were back with what Lady Caroline had 
told him of Mrs. Clayton. 

Sometimes, much as he disliked them, it seemed that his 
mind was forced into as great an engrossment with the 
mother and son as with the daughter. But they were that 
sort of family, one could not get at the one without the other ; 
though one day, yes, one day, there must be an end to all 
this. 

The memory of something he had heard or read of Matteo 
Palmieri’s “Citta Divina,” in which the human race is repre- 
sented as drawn from those angels who were neither com- 
pletely for or against Lucifer, for or against Jehovah — a 
belief so profoundly interesting to the Florentine mind of the 
fifteenth century — returned to him. Mrs. ClaytoiT was not 
altogether of the world, or apart from the world ; was unable 
to concentrate upon the spirit alone, though the mundane 
things of life held her not at all, apart from her sympathies. 
It was this which gave her that Botticelli air of ineffable, 
mistrustful melancholy; that aloofness which yet longs for 
a closer intimacy with, understanding of, humanity. 

This religion of sympathy and feeling — for there was 
never any woman with less dogma or of less churchly habits 
— might well account for that drawing away from him, that 
plain repugnance to something in his personality. For a wo- 
man of that sort to live with any one she mistrusted or dis- 
liked must be something like the company of the damned ; 


176 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


or rather, thought Hoyland, with his usual cynicism, those 
who are damned for lesser — or different, or grosser — reasons 
than we ourselves. 

Something in her slender, pointed fingers suggested a 
manipulation of fine threads, a winding or disentangling. 
He watched her with her few friends^ — her complete blank- 
ness in the company of the Rectory party amused him — with 
the servants ; with the cruder agricultural people and animals 
in whose company she was so entirely at home. She drew 
the very best out of these: old Haele, the shepherd, was 
almost epic when he was in her company; the cowmen 
and plowmen, the ancient gaffer laying the hedges — ^all 
alike ready with a store of rustic lore. It was as though 
she actually found the thread of gold in the thick of each 
tangled skein, drew it out, wove it to a pattern. 

What was it old Haele was saying to her one day ? “Aye, 
aye, missis, us do pass away out o’ the world as grasshoppers 
— and our life is astonishment an’ fear — ” weaving Biblical 
language into the woof of his own rough accent; gaping 
upwards, resentful of the way in which an aeroplane slid 
unregarding by, above his green pastures, his lambs, his 
ewes, his “owd tups.” 

Oh, yes, she drew all sorts of simple people with those 
fingers of hers, with the flow of her own wistful feeling. 
Hoyland, remembering his own hands as they used to be — 
the smooth, white skin, the broad palm, the pointed fingers 
thick at the base — stared with gloomy mockery at all which 
remained to him. His one scarred hand and his will against 
her hands and her soul ; not the soul as religionists believe 
it to exist through all eternity, that was sheer balderdash, 
but the something which he was beginning to acknowledge 
might prove sufficiently existent to demand a name — 
psychic inheritance, or whatever you were pleased to call it. 

It was the idea of this as something fluid and fluctuating, 
something of which he could not but realize that she was 
afraid that he might defraud her son, which Mrs. Clayton 
had left in his mind that day, when he looked back and saw 
her so oddly seated among the daffodils. Well, she might 
be right. If the thing existed at all, there might be greater 
or lesser flow. In some natures — as in Diana’s — so full 
and steady, so widely river-like, that there was no diverting 
it; in others easily turned aside; in yet others dried up at 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


177 


the very source. Granted this, might it not account for 
the fact that some people may be mesmerized and not others ; 
or, again, some by the will alone ; others by an actual laying 
on of hands. Any mesmerist could juggle with such things, 
take a weak-minded man’s individuality out of his body — 
his very ability to speak King’s English, behave with 
decorum — put some alien individuality in its place; then 
there were those people with dual personalities, to whom 
such things happened automatically, apart from their own 
volition or any one else’s. 

If one could — and it had been proved — tweak out a man’s 
self in this fashion, why not keep it out? A brutal com- 
parison came to Hoyland’s mind. How amusing to hang 
an assortment of fellow-beings, all that mattered of them, 
like scalps to one’s belt; use one as a breviary; swing an- 
other like a pounce-box between oneself and the common 
herd. 

It was only a few days later that the full possibilities of 
this thought came to him. Diana and her brother had 
taken their tea down to the river. They were both fishing, 
and Hoyland, who had been invited to accompany them, 
refused, then followed on and watched the boy land a trout — 
a fine enough fish. But what patience, what ardor, to waste 
to such an end ! If it were a woman, now — a sudden 
thought of what it would be like to bring Anthony Clayton’s 
fresh delight to bear on such a sport came to him with a 
sickening sense of envy. 

Diana had lain down her rod and was waiting for the kettle 
to boil. She had seated herself upon the bank amid a forest 
of purple willow-strife and creamy meadow-sweet ; her long 
legs, with the feet together, were straight out in front of her ; 
the strength of her back was shown by the way in which she 
sat upright upon the steeply-sloping bank; her chin was a 
little raised, her eyes dreamy. For once there was something 
of her mother’s Botticelli air about her, but far more ap- 
proachable, warmly human. As Hoyland dropped to the 
ground beside her, he caught his breath in a silent curse. 

That perfume of crushed meadow-sweet! There was 
a little Hungarian dancer who had used some scent just 
like that with her linen — crepe-de-chine, lace and ribbons, 
rather. She it was who had first said : “You and I, Charles, 
we make a fine art of love.” He had used the same phrase 


178 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


to Leila Gavin, innumerable times, and it was true, for that 
sort of love was an art in Plato's meaning of the word as 
something artificial. “Other men — " she had gone on 
to say. . . . The lewd reminiscences with which they had 
endeavored to rival one another flooded in upon him now, 
borne on that perfume of meadow-sweet as clearly as though 
the whole thing had happened but yesterday. And yet 
that particular affair had been over in a week, forgotten — 
he could have sworn to it — years and years ago. She, too — 
that Hungarian woman — ^had been dark and white-skinned, 
like Diana, but her eyes. . . . 

With an effort he shook off the odious comparisons and 
rose tO' his feet, bending over the kettle which bubbled above 
the spirit-lamp. “I think it’s boiling, isn’t it?” 

Those infernal memories. He felt stiff and old, sitting on 
the grass like a boy, trying to make love like a boy. What 
a damned silly game! He had actually been turning over 
in his mind some phrase likening Diana to the spring, when 
that memory of Zieska ran through his brain. And yet — 
and yet . . . 

To be like that boy Anthony, free of the satiation of the 
past, and still not to waste oneself as Anthony was doing. 

The thought took a more exact form that night. Some- 
thing of the clear, cold excitement, which had been one of 
the joys of his old life, came back to him, as possibility upon 
possibility was added to the structure, which had begun to 
form itself in his brain. If Mrs. Clayton’s hands were made 
for weaving, why not his for building? Already he had his 
fingers upon Anthony’s heart and brain : the boy was all 
eagerness to please him, to think as he thought, do as he did 
— be, in short, the very sort of man he imagined him to be. 

To take what he wished for from young Clayton’s indivi- 
duality, to take all that would go to the making of emotions 
as fresh and clear as first love, to draw out what he wanted, 
and then — in case the whole fabric should collapse — put all 
that was outworn, that he was so bored w'ith, of himself 
in its place. 

He would have as much of Anthony as he wanted, and 
Anthony — well, Anthony should have all that he did not 
need, was ready to discard of his old self. 

It would be like the Peche de Mer, that delicacy of the 
Celestials which turns itself inside out, starts life afresh 
each spring. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


179 


CHAPTER IX 

As the spring- merged into full summer, the austere sum- 
mer of the Peak district, Hoyland began to see more of Mrs. 
Clayton. She no longer kept out of his way, slid aside from 
him as she had done; sometimes it amused him to fancy 
that she was crossing his path with the trailing wing of 
some mother-bird. In the face of such mistrust he could 
not imagine why it was that she did not take upon herself 
to dismiss him. After all — as he told himself scornfully — 
he was nothing more than a superior sort of servant, and the 
fact of his having been installed by her daughter would not 
have prevented her from exercising her own judgment. 
Indeed, it was odd to note the interchangeable quality of the 
relationship between mother and daughter. Sometimes it 
was Mrs. Clayton who was the petted, the consoled and 
soothed, the beloved child. Hoyland himself had seen her 
leaning her head against the girl’s shoulder, had watched, 
unseen, while Diana dried her tears, led her off to bed. 
Whatever tucking-up there might be, it is certain that it 
was the daughter did it. 

But then, again, in certain family discussions, conclaves, 
particularly when they affected her son, it was Mrs. Clayton 
who held the reins of decision. Anthony had been wild to 
hear Rosing sing, and it had been as good as decided that he 
and Hoyland should go up together and spend a night or 
two in Town, when she interposed. No; if Anthony really 
wished to go, he could stay with cousins, or Diana might 
accompany him. When they protested that it was impossi- 
ble to leave her alone, she still showed no signs of relenting. 

Hoyland, conscious of her usual weakness, timidity, won- 
dered why neither of her children pressed the point. It 
was Anthony who supplied the reason : 

“The mater doesn’t often put her foot down, but when 
she does, there’s no turning her. Even my father realized 
that, though she was usually so frightened of him — ” 

“Frightened, was she?” Hoyland was vaguely inter- 
ested ; after all, these people and their foibles were all that 
was left to amuse him. 

“Yes; he behaved abominably to her — oh, abominably 1’’ 
The boy’s voice was vehement; his face flushed. Hoyland 


180 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


had never seen him so moved, and it was evident that this 
was one of those sores which, received in childhood, are 
deeply embedded into the more mature consciousness, never 
completely healed. “Why she ever married him the Lord 
only knows — a rough brute ! Yes, that’s what he was, al- 
though he was my father, worse luck! He who ought to 
have gone on his knees to her! She would never discuss 
him with me, never take sides against him ; but I remember 
how we used to hold hands, clutching each other, just like 
two kids, when he was in one of his moods, when we heard 
him coming. Frightened! — I was terrified! I used to bite 
my lip, look at her and see her biting hers — it was like seeing 
one’s own face in a looking-glass — our eyes all hard and stiff 
— you know the sort of look — with holding back our tears. 
Diana declared it was partly us being so afraid that made 
him angry. Oh, but, of course, he was angry first, or why 
should we have started it ? She said — sticks to it now — that 
some people are made like that — angry and impatient with 
the neople they love most. Rotten sort of love, I call it. 
After all, it’s only just because she never is afraid, never has 
been afraid of anything.” 

Anyhow, the Rosing concert was out of the question; 
Mr. Hoyland would realize now why they could not bother 
her, why it was impossible for them both to be away together, 
leave her remembering, thinking over things. It would not 
be any fun to go alone ; and, as to the cousins, they cared 
for nothing but ragtime — devastating company for a really 
good concert. 

Less than a week later another instance of what Anthony 
described as “the mater putting her foot down” was brought 
to Holland’s notice, upsetting his own arrangements ; though 
this time it was in connection with her daughter, not with 
her son, that Mrs. Clayton intervened. 

There was to be a specially large sale of stock at a town 
some miles off, and Diana wished to go. 

As it happened, Reuben Haele, who usually accompanied 
her, was laid up with lumbago ; it was an almost impossible 
place to reach by rail or road, and altogether too far for 
Anthony to ride, fifteen miles or more. 

Thus Hoyland’s offer to accompany the girl seemed oppor- 
tune, natural enough, and she accepted it as simply as she 
did everything. 

“It’s very good of you. It’s a dull ride all alone, and one 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


181 


horse goes so badly ; but still I'm afraid it will bore you. 
I may be there the best part of the day — I want some young 
beasts, weVe more feed than we need ; and a heifer or two 
ready for milking next season. With such a late spring in 
Scotland they’re running short of fodder, sending them down 
here ; likely enough they will go cheap, but I may have to 
wait to the end of the sale.” 

“I don’t mind that in the least; I daresay I can find 
something to doi while you drive your bargain.” Hoyland’s 
tone was complacent; the whole thing seemed as good as 
settled, and Diana was debating upon the hour when it 
would be necessary for them to make a start, when Mrs. 
Clayton intervened, quietly, unexpectedly; her head turned 
aside in the way of a seeing person who is scarcely thinking 
of what she says : 

“You’d better arrange to ride over with Reggie Stendall — 
he and Bob ‘are sure to be going.” Bob, always spoken of 
by his Christian name, apparently some distant relation of 
Mr. Stendall’s, who was staying at Setons — a lanky youth, 
invalided out of the army — seemed to be continually quoted, 
discussed, considered. “We’ll make a farmer of Bob yet,” 
Mr. Stendall had said ; and Hoyland had sneered at the 
thought of this as the pinnacle of any young man’s 
ambition, oblivious of that kindliness which tried to 
draw him towards the only sort of life for which he was 
now fitted. 

They were all seated at the tea-table. Mrs. Clayton had 
her back to the window, and Hoyland could not see her face ; 
but her voice was so vague and detached, that, mentally, he 
shrugged her aside. He had set his heart upon this long day 
with Diana, for up to now he had never been quite sure 
how far the incident which followed upon the Stendall’s 
dinner-party was really forgotten or forgiven. 

“But, Mother, darling, it’s miles out of the way to go to 
Setons first.” 

“You could sleep there the night before.” 

“Oh, but such a bother, and I’ve so much to do. Of 
course, I can go alone, but if Mr. Hoyland really doesn’t 
mind — ” 

“Yes — yes, that would be better — far better to go alone.” 
Mrs. Clayton had risen from her chair, stood with the fingers 
of one hand just touching the table, one shoulder turned a 
little on one side, as though hesitating. 


182 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


“Of course, if you’d rather — ” 

“Yes, that’s it — I would rathef. You will be very well 
alone.” 

Clearly it was the blind woman’s body alone which hesi- 
tated, hovered; her mind had gathered to a firm point of 
decision, as it had an odd and disconcerting way of doing, 
just when one were most ready to count her out. 

“Of course — as you like, dear.” Diana’s face was puzzled 
as her eyes followed her mother to the door; but apart 
from this, it was plain that she did not mind one way or 
another — was exasperatingly sufficient for herself. Two 
horses went better than one — ^that was all. 

“You don’t think it worth while — don’t even pay me the 
compliment of protesting,” said Hoyland. 

“Oh, it’s no use; not worth bothering my mother about. 
Though I can’t see why — ” The girl was pouring herself 
out a fresh cup of tea. As she broke off in the midst of her 
sentence, it was plain that she was engrossed in the effort 
to find some reason for her mother’s prohibition. 

“What’s the good of listening to her? Crazed, that’s 
what she is.” The words were on the tip of Hoyland’s 
tongue ; one day he would say them, and much more, toO' ; 
but meanwhile — well, it paid best to be silent, submit. At 
the same time his thoughts were cutting out the people, 
the sort of life that he would not put up with, once he was 
married to Di^na. 

By the merest chance he got at the meaning of Mrs. Clay- 
ton’s veto, later that same evening. He was always telling 
himself that she was mad, and yet at the back of his mind 
was a growing conviction that, foolish as her words might 
appear to be, her instincts had something more than mere 
reason at the back of them, were almost uncannily acute. 
And here he lighted upon another proof that this strange in- 
sight of hers took her further than even he could have imag- 
ined, was mingled, at times, with a certain worldly shrewd- 
ness. 

Only a few interrupted words, and yet there it was. She 
was right, amazingly right! 

Mother and daughter were sitting upon a bench just out- 
side the drawing-room, where he had gone in hope of find- 
ing something worth reading upon one of the low book- 
shelves which ran under the windows, packed with a curi- 
ously indiscriminate medley of literature. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


183 


“I wonder why you say that? IVe ridden 'v^ith him 
before.” It was Diana who spoke — indifferently enough, 
for it seemed as though the question of riding or not riding 
with her brother’s tutor came in at the end of some weightier 
discussion. A steady click accompanied the words, for she 
was one of those women — the sort of women he had always 
hated — who knit in their spare moments, with busy hands 
and far-away, clear eyes. 

Sometimes, looking at her, Hoyland thought impatiently: 
‘Why, she’s like an old woman!” And yet at the back 
of his mind was a sense of safety in the picture of her grow- 
ing old at his side ; a realization that she was the only woman 
he had ever fancied whom he could think of as gray-haired , 
and wrinkled, without repugnance. 

“But this is different — ^not the just riding.” 

“What, then? Going to the sale? But it can’t be what 
people would say; you’d never bother your dear head — ” 

“No, no ! But you must trust me, Diana ; I know, believe 
me, I know. . . . The men who will be there — the men 
whose ‘talk is of oxen’ — ” Mrs. Clayton’s sentences were 
broken; Hoyland wondered if she were twisting her hands 
together. Always, as it seemed, she agonized over any 
decision, and yet, even now he realized that she did not 
mean to give way. 

“I’ve been so often ; they all know me.” 

“But it’s not them I mean. Oh, my dear, don’t you see 
it isn’t what they, the countiy people, will say — it’s what 
he, the town man, will put into it all : the parallels, sug- 
gestions.” 

“But what does that matter ? I have my business to do.” 
Hoyland might have imagined that she was anxious for his 
company, but he knew her better. She wished to understand 
her mother’s point of view ; it was a part of her unfailing 
thought and care for her. 

“Ah, yes, yes, you have your own busineas to do ; that’s 
it — forgetting everjdhing else — choosing cattle for breeding, 
milking, discussing every point. With country people — 
oh, yes, there it’s all right— the sex in the animal is part of 
their life ; they see it through the eyes of their own need ; 
its adaptability to their own ends : will discuss it as openly 
as any doctor discusses the affairs of the body. But with 
a town man, a man like that! Don’t you realize, my 
daughter, that you can’t go buying cattle with a man whose 


184 . 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

own sensations are involved in everything he does, sees, 
thinks — a man who— r” 

“Mr. Hoyland’' — it was Anthony peering through the 
open door into the dim room — “I say, I’ve been hunting 
for you everywhere. Are you looking for a book ? Shall I 
get you a candle?” 

“No, no. I’ve found what I want.” Hoyland straightened 
himself and took a book at random from a shelf immediately 
in front of him. Either Mrs. Clayton had ceased speaking, 
or the remainder of what she said was lost to him. But, 
anyhow, he had heard enough. He was amazed: this w^o- 
man — why, she was like a child who, with a sudden pointed 
finger, strips you bare of all your most cherished illusions. 

That any one so apparently simple should be so astute, so 
wavering, and yet capable of such judgment. 

Why — again and again he asked himself the same ques- 
tion — why, why, in the name of all that was holy — did she 
tolerate his continued presence in the house? That day, 
more than a month before, when he had talked so wildly of 
his soul, she had spoken of his going, suggested it. But 
that was all; since then she had not so much as hinted at 
such a thing. 

He challenged her with it one day: “I wonder why you 
don’t give me my conge, get quit of me, once and for all.” 
His tone was the more insolent in that he was puzzled, at 
the back of everything, a little afraid. 

But as she turned aside from him, shaking, confused, he 
was momentarily conscious of a thrill of triumph. “So 
I’ve got her at last, nailed her down,” he thought. And yet, 
had he? What, after all, was to be made of her answer? 

“Because — ah, now, how can I tell what you might take 
with you?” 

All very well to tell himself that it was Diana, the girl 
herself of whom she was thinking, when he knew perfectly 
well that this was not the truth, or anywhere near it ; that 
she realized possibilities in his influence over her son, which 
he, himself, had, as yet, only dreamt of as possible. 

How far it was her unspoken knowledge which influenced 
him it would be difficult to say ; but it is certain that it was 
in some measure her beliefs and fears which gave him that 
idea upon which he now began to shape his life, his every 
waking thought. . 

He remembered laughing at some boon companion of his 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


185 


own, who had joined the Roman Catholic Church, abjured 
his sins : “Virtue, the ultimate vice of the vicious — ^like an 
olive clearing the palate for a fresh flask of wine/’ 

And yet was it not this, or something like this, which he 
needed before he could get any clear, unspoilt flavor out of 
life. 

The first step, as he realized, was, without doubt, so to 
manipulate Anthony : so work upon his mind, as to render 
it amenable to one outside influence alone — ^his influence. 
From the very first night at Ox Lee that idea of corrupting 
his pupil — not so much physically as mentally — had held 
certain attractions. But the interest had fluctuated ; he had 
never really set himself to it serious, definitely ; had allowed 
his irritation, that desire to hurt which had come to him 
so strongly sin^ he himself had been marred, to interfere 
with his influence; had run the risk of antagonizing or 
frightening the boy, merely because he had never felt sure 
which sort of game was most worth the candle. 

Now, with a direct objective in front of him, all this was 
changed — a new and vivid interest added to life. He kept 
Anthony at work because when he was at work his own 
influence was at its zenith ; he was master, and he mastered. 
Out of doors, in the open air, amid the animals — cattle, dogs, 
horses ; with the workmen at hand — old Haele with his 
instinctive dislike, less active but as deep as Nanny’s, the 
other men, who cared for him no more — among all the sights 
and sounds of country life he was at a disadvantage ; while 
in the somber depths of the dale, dark with its river and 
its rocks, its brooding masses of foliage, in the open reaches 
of the wind-swept highlands, he felt himself helpless ; forever 
reminded of the words which he had heard Mrs. Clayton use 
to Lady Caroline — words which she had practically repeated 
to his own face : “The earth which draws back and snarls 
at him ; the sky which holds him pinned beneath it — never 
enfolding, bending; the wind, the trees — ^the trees and the 
earth — they’ll have him between them.” 

He could not only do nothing out there — “among them 
all,” as she would have said — but he was somehow frightened 
of himself and his tricks. He seemed to have caught a 
sense of something listening, watching, and endeavored 
to guard his very thoughts as he did in Mrs. Clayton’s 
sensitive presence. After all, it was a sort of warfare. 

One day he had been foolish enough, after a day in Shef- 


186 THE LITTLE SOUL 

field, to attempt the short cut across the wildest heights 
which lay between Ox Lee and the station. As he topped 
the steepest portion of the hill, stood among scattered rocks 
and dwarfed bent thorns — twisted all one way with the wind 
— ^breathless, and conscious of that strange sense of utter 
fatigue which had come to him noW and then since that time 
in France, he was overcome by a sudden vertigo. The 
whole scene swam in a dancing mist of black and yellow ; 
while, just for the merest fraction of time, some atavistic 
memory seemed to show him himself — himself, though he 
was at one and the same time spectator and actor in the 
scene — running, crouching, bent half double beneath an oval 
shield of woven willow — willow from the greatest dale. It 
was strange how he knew that, realized at the same time 
the terror in the heart of the beast-like thing, which, tossing 
its shield desperately aloft against a flare of lightning — 
stupid, stupid fool ! — fell stricken to the ground. 

In the moment that he fell Hoyland realized that he — 
or the creature he had been — was dead ; there was for that 
fraction of time something in himself, some feeling of shock, 
some awful cessation of warmth and heartbeat which told 
him as much, driving it home with a sense of utmost, 
helpless terror. And yet, as a peal of actual thunder burst 
above his head, rolled, shouting, off among the hills, he 
could not believe that he had seen anything. He hadn’t 
seen anything — no more than a person who has a hand- 
kerchief whisked across his face may be said to see. He 
had pretty nearly fainted, that was all; had mounted the 
hill too quickly at the side furthest from the oncoming 
storm, had been half blinded, half knocked silly by the 
lightning flaring straight upon him as he topped the steepest 
part of the rise, with beating heart and overstrained arteries 
— or so he told himself. 

That night he woke from a heavy, dreamless sleep with 
a sudden sense of certainty that some time or other — hun- 
dreds and hundreds of years ago — so long ago that men ran 
naked with spear and shield — ^he had been killed by lightning 
in just such a place. The impression was gone in a moment, 
and he dropped asleep again. But, for all that, when he 
awoke next morning, he remembered how the Vicar had 
told him that part of the Peak district was the last resort of 
the Britain in England; remembered how one other night 
he had awoken all in sweat with the certainty that he 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


187 


heard wolves; had almost seen them, red-eyed and fierce, 
upon the track of something which, so vivid was the sense of 
terror, might have been him himself, were it not that he 
was safe in bed at Ox Lee, with the feel of the smooth linen 
up against his chin; the curtains only half-drawn and the 
moonlight streaming into the room, showing it reflected in a 
large old-fashioned pier-glass which stood at right angles to 
the window. 

Of course, it was all the result of nerves, weakened by phy- 
sical suffering. He was certain of that ; and, after all, there 
had always — ever since those days at Sotteville — ^been that 
same tendency to panic in wide-open places; but, all the 
same, there was no use in putting any unnecessary strain 
upon his strength, for he needed it all just now. Thus, he 
kept Anthony indoors, and the windows pretty constantly 
shut. The bees came in, he complained, and how could one 
work with that incessant buzzing in the room ? Then there 
was the sound of cocks and hens, the distant lowing of cows, 
the song of birds — all the infernal din of country life. 

Anthony grew paler with the lack of air, the concentration 
upon books — it was all classics now and philosophies — certain 
philosophies ... it was somewhere about this time that 
Hoyland started upon Freud and his theory of dreams: 
what is known as “The Wish.” And here, almost before 
he had dared to hope for any change, his belief in the power 
of the will began to be proved. He had set himself to do a 
thing: got it going, and now it was almost doing itself. It 
seemed that Anthony’s mind was like certain sorts of ground 
upon which one can go on and on pouring water with no 
apparent eflfect, until, quite suddenly, it becomes impreg- 
nated, workable. A little more and he would be able 
to mold it between his finger and thumb, pinch it into the 
required form. 

And yet, not always; sometimes for a while the whole 
thing seemed to slip away from him, and the boy became so 
moody, so restless and irritable, that it was almost impossible 
to do anything with him. Sometimes he would escape from 
his tutor’s control, wander for hours alone among the hills ; 
sit brooding beside the river, his fishing-rod held loosely 
and disregarded between his fingers, his flies — one of his 
precious dry flies— dragging upon the stream. 

At other times he would sit at the piano for hours together. 
Sometimes it seemed to Hoyland that his playing marked the 


188 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

alteration in him more than anything else; it had lost its 
sensitive, dreamy quality, was wild and uneven. 

Once he heard him talking to his sister. It was at the end 
of one of those days when he had broken away from his tutor, 
fretful and manifestly unhappy. There had been a scene 
between mother and son — if that'-could be called a scene in 
which one of the participators was so dazed and silent as 
Mrs.' Clayton. Anthony had been brutally impatient: the 
sound of the words in which he flung back some appeal which 
she had made for his confidence upon the most insignificant 
point amazed him almost as much as it amazed her. The 
thing had happened at tea-time, and Hoyland could not for- 
get the way in which they had both risen to their feet, pushed 
back their chairs, stood facing one anather, shaken like leaves. 

“You want to make a perfect fool of me! You want 
every one to be as soft as yourself — the laughing-stock of the 
place!” the boy had cried. “If you don’t know how every 
one laughs at us, what fools they think us, I do — so there ! 
And I won’t have it any more: once for all, I refuse to be 
treated like a child in leading-strings. No wonder every one 
thinks you’re mad. But, by Jove, if you’re mad enough to 
think that I’m going to make such a bloody — ” 

It was there he broke off, stood for a moment with the 
consciousness of what he had said dawning slowly in his 
haggard young face ; and rushed from the room. 

Diana went to her mother, drew her back into her chair, 
knelt by her side, put her arms round her. “My darling, oh, 
my darling, don’t mind. He doesn’t know what he’s saying ; 
he’ll be frightfully sorry — he — ” Her voice dropped to a 
murmur as she pressed her face against her mother’s breast. 
But Airs. Clayton had ceased to tremble ; there was no sign 
of tears; and Hoyland realized that she felt her son to be 
more nearly hers in a moment like that which had passed, 
than during those long periods of absorption, indifference to 
everything which had to do with his own people, his own 
home, which had enveloped him so completely of late. 

It was after this that Hoyland, discussing the boy’s changes 
of mood with his sister — showing a concern and sense of 
responsibility which could not fail to touch her — suggested 
that it might be a good thing to try some new form of diver- 
sion — “I believe that the great thing is to keep a boy of that 
age interested and amused : his work isn’t enough, and per- 
haps he’s grown a little tired of country amusements.” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


189 


“Perhaps you are right; perhaps that's it.” Diana was 
gravely concerned. She was not very quick to notice things, 
but when she gained any impression it sank deep. 

On his way up to bed that same night, Hoyland heard 
voices in the drawing-room, which could have nothing to do 
with Mrs. Clayton, the plaintive notes of whose flute were 
audible from her room at the head of the stairs. It was very 
late for Ox Lee — past eleven — and all the lights were out: 
but the whole house was so flooded with moonlight that Hoy- 
land had not troubled to take a candle. 

He was stepping softly, as he always did — “For all the 
world like any old Tom,” as Nanny said — and the voices 
continued as he passed the open door, then stood to listen. 

“But can't you tell me, my dear? If only you could tell 
me what it is !” That was Diana : he could even see her, 
or rather the silhouette of her, against the white light of the 
window, bent over a darker bulk which crouched at her knee. 
Always bending over something ; always damnably concerned 
about something or somebody. 

“How can I tell you? If I knew — Oh, God, if only I 
knew !” Anthony's voice had retained until later than usual 
the light, broken notes of extreme youth, with comical rough 
breaks — ^but the tone which Hoyland now heard was deep 
as a man's, full of desperate regret and fear. “If {I knew, 
it would be all right — something to fight against. But — 
well, it's like a sort of disease no one knows anything about 
— there's no curing it because no one has any idea what it is, 
and so a fellow dies! It's like — Di, look here; I swear 
to you it's like this — ^like in the Revelations — ^the Seven 
Vials of Wrath. If I knew when it was coming, even, but I 
don't. I know I'm all wrong — everything wrong about 
me, gone crooked, warped. — Sometimes, just for an hour, I 
seem to get back to my old self, and then it's like^ waking 
from an awful dream. — Do you know those dreams in which 
you struggle and fight to awake, feeling that if it goes on 
another moment you’ll be stifled? — Well, it's like that. 
Only I remember — as I remember now those awful things 
I said to Mother — Mother, of a'll people! — whom Td give 
my life for — things that we’ve spent our time in trying to 
keep her from thinking ; lies, too, filthy, rotten lies ! . . .” 

“Is there anything, anything I don’t know of, worrying 
you ? Perhaps, then — ” 

“Me — me, myself!” The boy's voice rose to a note of 


190 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


sheer desperation. “That's all — that’s everything! If it 
was outside, I could sort of get at it — ^but it’s in myself. If 
it was possible to get into another person — or if another per- 
son could get into you — well, there you’d have it — the wrong 
song to the wrong tune ... all a sort of awful misfit. Oh, 
how can I explain when I don’t know ? — I don’t even know 
myself : only now and then I awake and remember what I’ve 
said, done — and even worse, the vile, the filthy things I’ve 
thought. And where does it all come from? It’s poured 
into me — it’s like the emptying of a town sewer : everything 
I read, everything I do — even the very sight of the animals 
about the place, even the things you say of them, talking to 
Haele or any one, are contaminated — ^give me all sorts of 
devilish ideas. And that’s not all. I gloat over them, want 
to get away alone, hug myself and them. Mr. Hoyland is 
such a good chap, he never thinks — of course, no decent- 
minded man ever would think — he’s a scholar to his finger- 
tips ; it’s just the beauty of the literature he’s out for. But 
at work sometimes, translating Latin stuff — even worse now 
I’m getting on with my Greek, so easily that it seems that 
there must be something wrong about that, too — something 
infernal — I feel all — oh, too awful I I never even noticed 
the license before ; but now it’s all I look for, care for. If 
he had any idea of the things I think of, the pictures I have 
in my mind — 1” 

“But tell me the sort of things.” 

“If I told you — if I told you a thousand, thousand times, 
in all the words there are to it, you’d never understand. . , . 
Thank God, Di, you’d never understand.” 

The boy flung to his feet and moved upright against the 
light of the window: Hoyland saw him fling both arms 
aloft with a gesture of despair. “Life’s awful, and death’s 
awful — sometimes I’m half wild with, terror, at the thought 
of it going on and on — Thousands of other people may be 
feeling as I’m feeling; with little ribald souls laughing at 
the back of them — grinning skeletons, not like real people 
at all; just pretending to be real people. Even when I’m 
not like that, ten to one I’m all stuffed up, frowsty — not 
caring about anything. Just like a room, dusty and dirty, 
with all the windows shut : dead flowers, scent and all that : 
used up and stale I” 

“I think you’d better go away for a bit. Perhaps . . .” 

“What’s the good of going away? — to take myself with 


191 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

myself!” The boy’s tone was suddenly changed, sullen. 
“Look here, Di, do you believe in devils ?” 

“I suppose, yes, I suppose I do, powers of evil, anyhow.” 

“Well, there you have it. That’s what’s wrong with me — 
I’m possessed of a devil ; running down a steep place — mak- 
ing my own steep place — but not to the sea, — no such luck — 
there’s oblivion in the sea — ^but to that bottomless pit old 
Haele’s always yapping of.” 

His voice had lost its note of despair, was bitterly defiant: 
he flung round so quickly and out of the room that Hoyland 
was no further than the third step of the stairs when he 
brushed past him ; turning towards him, for one moment, a 
face at once, so derisive, and so seamed with wretchedness 
that the tutor could not fail to realize that he had guessed at 
his eavesdropping. 


CHAPTER X 

It was after this, following upon the talk which he had 
with his “employer,” as he chose to call her ; trying to belittle 
her, bring her down to his own level by his sneers, that Hoy- 
land and his pupil began to go into Manchester or Sheffield 
for the matinees, once or twice each week. At the latter, 
upon the occasion of their first visit, there was a musical 
comedy, and among the faces in the back row of the chorus 
was one which momentarily teased Hoyland with a vague 
sense of memor}?’: but the costumes and head-dresses were 
so preposterous and exaggerated that it was impossible to 
form a mental picture of what any one of the girls might 
have been like in ordinary life ; and, after all, in the old days, 
he had many slight acquaintances among such people : apart 
from this, the lighting was bad, and they had not particularly 
good seats. Thus, even before the end of the performance, 
the impression of some memory was lost. 

He did not think much of the show ; and at first Anthony 
had seemed merely irritated by the music, which was jerky 
and tuneless. The Manchester play had been very much 
the better of the two, and if the boy was to be launched out 
upon a life of gayety, it seemed that the larger city held the 
greater attractions. 

But when, a few days later, Hoyland spoke of wishing to 
have his hair cut, Anthony seemed bent upon Sheffield.— » 


192 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


‘T want to get some ties and things, and I know the shops 
there,” was what he said. 

He went off to do his shopping while his tutor was at the 
hairdresser’s : but he did not return, neither was he at the 
station to meet the train by which they had arranged to re- 
turn. Hoyland waited for the next; but still there was no 
sign of Anthon). ; and taking it for granted that they had 
missed each other in the crowd which rushed for the first, he 
went home alone. It was then that he tried that short cut 
across the hills from Peak Forest station ; though it was only 
when he got back, and found that the boy had not yet re- 
turned, that he realized he might even now have been build- 
ing better than he thought. 

When young Clayton did return, by a very much later 
train, from which he did not reach home until close upon ten 
o’clock, he announced that he had been to an afternoon 
performance at the theater. “Why didn’t he tell Mr. Hoy- 
land he was going?” — Well, he didn’t know himself. He 
had gone just because it came into his head to go, had 
missed his train and decided to have dinner in town, that 
was all. He was listless, indifferent and irritable under 
their questioning — ^there was something more of “a fellow 
not being kept in leading-strings.” 

After this he seemed to be forever in Sheffield upon one 
pretext or another. Sometimes he must have been there 
when he gave every one to believe that he was fishing down 
the river: Hoyland had seen him hurrying furtively home 
across the hills ; had, with his man’s eye, noticed the differ- 
ence in his dress. 

And this was not all. Hoyland had tried the experiment 
of taking him over to Mrs. Vesey Horton’s one afternoon, 
when he knew that she had friends of her own staying there. 
After the first greeting, she had turned aside to him with a 
grimace. “What are we to do with that child here? I 
had planned bridge; and they are — well, not exactly a 
pastoral set : Lady Filsham, now, there’s no knowing what 
she mayn’t say or do next. Really, my dear man, I do 
think you might have known better.” 

“It’s difficult to get away without him,” was Hoyland’s 
imperturbable answer. “But really he plays quite a decent 
hand. Give him my place— I’m stony-broke — and be kind 
to him ; but not too kind. I’m responsible, remember.” 

“It’s as bad as having a child in the room — we’ll have to 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


193 


talk French, or spell our words,” grumbled the hostess. But 
she was a good-natured woman, with young brothers of her 
own, and at the bottom of her heart she felt sorry for the 
youngster, who must feel out of it among so many old stagers. 

But her pity was wasted. Hoyland was right. She 
played with Anthony herself, and they lost the first game — 
but that^ was through no fault of his : the tutor had tested 
him during a couple of intolerable evenings at the Rectory, 
and one other evening at Setons : from the beginning he had 
shown a flawless memory — “If only you would keep your 
mind on the game, you’d be all right,” he had said, and added 
a few hints. 

Anthony did not need to be told to keep his mind on the 
game now. That first game was his only failure. There 
was something avid and curiously unyouthful in his absorp- 
tion : it was he who ran up the stakes, the others, so much 
older, were amused at him, humored him. “A real good 
sport !” That was what they said ; and, “By gad ! not 
much that young fellow’ud stop at, eh ?” 

“Anyhow, I’ve helped him to stand on his own feet,” 
thought Hoyland; and swelled with a sense of something 
like benevolence. 

Soon after six, the players at the second table laid down 
their cards and gathered to watch. When some one spoke, 
Anthony glanced up and frowned, with a look which, held 
so much of the fierce exasperation of an old gambler that 
Mrs. Vesey Horton was faintly uneasy. Hoyland oughtn’t 
to allow it ! After all, he was the merest boy ; it was a shame 
to let him play so high — all the worse in that he was winning. 
At the next break she said, “Don’t you think you good peo- 
ple have had about enough? For goodness’ sake let’s go 
and get some fresh air before dinner.” 

“Oh, let them play it out, dear lady,” interposed some one 
else, easily: “It’s what one might describe as practicing 
the young idea in the art of shooting, eh!” 

“Well, this must be the last. Tom will be furious if he 
comes home and finds us still at it. He hates bridge in 
the afternoon, anyhow. Now, remember, I leave it to you, 
Mr. Hoyland.” 

Hoyland, playing against his pupil, looked up and nodded. 
When Mrs. Vesey Horton had stopped playing, upon the 
pretense of pouring out the tea. Lord Yeanham had taken 
her place: then a Miss Stanley, who was of their party, 


194 ! 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


grew tired of playing, and a man staying in the house had 
come across from the other table. 

Thus it was three mature men and a boy whom Mrs. Vesey 
Horton left at play, and whom she found still gathered round 
the table, when they all came hurrying back at the sound of 
the dressing-gong. 

Lord Yeanham and Anthony Clayton were partners. 
Against them were Cathcart, a thin, colorless man who sat 
tapping with his cards upon his lips, one eyebrow twisted 
all askew, and Hoyland. The latter, sitting a little forward 
in his chair, extraordinarily neat and impassive — ‘The best- 
groomed man I ever saw,” thought Mrs. Vesey Horton, “and 
the most mysterious;” mysterious was a word she used, 
even in her own thoughts, for everything which she failed 
to understand — had his heavy-lidded eyes fixed upon his 
pupil, whose turn it was to play. Lord Yeanham, also, was 
watching him; his bestial face, with its immense sweep of 
smooth shaven jaw, more deeply flushed than ever, drawing 
in his lips and puffing them out again. 

As the party from the garden entered by one of the open 
French windows, Vesey Horton himself appeared in the 
doorway, in riding-kit, with a whip in his hand; a stout, 
sanguine man, with reddish hair and eyes. 

“Well, I must say! A nice sorter way to spend a fine 
summer afternoon — at a time like this, too — ^by Gad, a time 
like this — a war on an’ all! Did none of you hear the 
dressing-gong, eh?” 

All the players, with the exception of young Clayton, 
glanced up at the master of the house. 

“A moment, old chap,” said Lord Yeanham. “We’ve 
just finished the rubber.” 

“Time, too! What the hell do you want to be playing 
cards here in the afternoon for? You know I hate it,” 
grumbled Vesey Horton : his sulky glance turned persistently 
away from his wife and the little group who surrounded 
her. “One ’ud think that when you knew a fellow, in his 
own house — ” 

‘‘Will you be quiet, please? — How can I think what I’m 
doing ?” The amazed glance of every one in the room swung 
round from the host to young Anthony Clayton, as he rapped 
out the words, sharp with irritation. There was a flaming 
spot of color on either cheek : frowning, his pale lips drawn 
tight, he did not even glance up as he spoke. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 195 

‘‘You young puppy !” roared Vesey Horton, purple with 
amazement. “Who the devil do you think you’re speaking 
to? What the devil — ” The veins stood out round his 
neck, on his temples, like cords, as his wife went up to him 
and laid her hand on his arm. 

“Be quiet, Tom ; don’t make a scene — it’s only a boy.” 

“A boy be damned ! Boy or no boy — ” 

“Oh, for God’s sake shut up !” broke in Anthony ; then, 
in the amazed silence which followed, laid a card upon the 
table. 

Vesey Horton took a step forward, his riding-whip raised, 
pulling away from his wife’s hand: 

“If I don’t give you the soundest thrashing you ever had 
in your life, you insolent young dog, you — ” 

^ The other men had laid down their cards on the table and 
risen to their feet : there was a babel of talk. Lord Yeanham 
had his host by the lapels of his coat and was stuttering 
furiously : Cathcart was white to the lips ; he hated a row ; 
there was nothing like it for shaking a fellow’s nerves: 
Mrs. Vesey Horton was laughing, rather hysterically. 

“Don’t be so silly, Tom! Can’t you see ... ?” They 
were gathered in a group around the master of the house: 
Anthony alone was left seated at the table. Hoyland was 
watching him, puzzled and a little scared — ^things were going 
a trifle too fast, even for him. 

Suddenly young Clayton looked up and smiled across at 
Lord Yeanham. 

“Our rubber, anyhow, partner,” he said calmly; then 
paused, his mouth a little open, as though suddenly awak- 
ened to something which he did not understand; the color 
slowly draining from his cheeks, as Mr. Vesey Horton broke 
into a sudden, loud, unexpected laugh. 

“Well 1 Of all the cheeky young devils !” he exclaimed ; 
then — “But look here, you fellows. Let me tell you this. 
I’ll have no plucking of coots in my house; got me there, 
eh?” 

“I don’t think you need be afraid of that, Horton,” put 
in Cathcart, speaking for the first time. “This special coot 
seems to have done very well for himself — with Yeanham’s 
able assistance,” he added bitterly. “Anyhow, they’ve 
cleared me out, between them.” 

“Serve you right — playing cards in the afternoon — after- 
noon like this, time like this!” Vesey Horton crooked a. 


196 


3:he little soul 

thick forefinger and beckoned to Anthony — “Look here, 
you’re young Clayton of Ox Lee, ain’t you ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, you take my advice, young man: keep clear o’ 
this sorter thing for another ten years, at least. Better still, 
keep clear of it altogether. Who brought you here, eh?” 

“No one. I—” 

“You know Mr. Hoyland, Tom,” broke in his wife, for 
she was angry with Hoyland; all this upset was his fault, 
he ought to have had more sense. “You remember, Mr. 
Hoyland’s staying at Ox Lee, tutoring — ” 

“Well, upon my word ! a pretty sorter tutor !” interrupted 
Vesey Horton, with a loud laugh, half drowned in a second 
peal of the gong. 

“A pretty sorter tutor,” thought Hoyland, as he sat alone 
in the study that evening, nursing a wood fire. Anthony 
had gone off to Nanny in the kitchen, would scarcely look 
at him. “A pretty sorter pupil, rather!” For he and 
Yeanham between them had cleared him out of just on 
twenty pounds, a sum which he could but ill afford to pay 
for an afternoon’s amusement — or instruction: instruction 
too well given, too well taken to heart. 


CHAPTER XI 

One afternoon when Hoyland was sitting with Constance 
Hervey upon some rocks just above the path which lay close 
against the river, cutting the cleft of the dale, Diana Clayton 
coming down it, saw them and turned aside to speak to them ; 
a little surprised and yet not liking to pass them by as though 
there could be anything clandestine in such a meeting. She 
did not greatly care for Constance Hervey, though she ad- 
mired her ; but if she and Hoyland were in love with each 
other, as she supposed they were, it might help him to build 
up something in the way of a new life. The thought pleased 
her, more especially because — mingled with a deep sense 
of bewilderment and grief at the change in her brother — 
there was a slow-growing doubt of his tutor ; and if — well, 
if he were not a success at Ox Lee, it was a comfort to feel 
that 'he might find happiness elsewhere. 

She was carrying a half-grown wild rabbit: its ears lay 
back flush with its body as it stretched along her arm : one 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


197 

hand supported its hind legs, with the other she was stroking 
the top of its head. The creature^s eyes were bolting; 
Hoyland could just see them as it pushed its nose into the 
crook of the girl’s arm, but it made no effort to escape. 

‘T found it in a trap, poor thing! One leg broken; but 
I think I can mend it, it will be all right.” 

‘‘Better put it out of its misery, I should say,” remarked 
Hoyland, who had risen to his feet. He tried to speak 
calmly, but there was yellow clay and blood upon Diana’s 
hand, where it supported the wounded animal’s hind-quar- 
ters, and his eyes were fixed upon it resentfully ; it made him 
sick and savage, — why in the world was she like that, con- 
taminating herself with such things ? 

“Ugh !” Miss Hervey gave a little shudder. “How can 
you? Don’t you know that they’re simply swarming with 
fleas ?” 

Diana smiled, that odd, wide smile that had once been so 
much a part of her brother’s expression — the exasperating 
way in which this family was interwoven with each other! 
thought Hoyland; not that there was much smiling about 
Anthony in these days ; he had seen to that. — ^“You 
mustn’t misjudge even fleas. Miss Hervey — ” there was 
quiet malice in Diana’s voice ; she had forgotten her shyness 
in a sense of resentment at this girl’s finicky niceness; re- 
membering the sneer she had often noticed at the back of her 
seeming deference to dear old Caroline — “they won’t forsake 
their host so long as it’s alive — true to their salt.” 

“Give it to me — filthy — ^bleeding — !” 

Hoyland’s voice was hoarse as he put out one hand to the 
trembling animal lying along the girl’s arm. It seemed as 
though his brain were on fire with resentment, jealousy — 
yes, jealousy — that there should be a thought wasted upon 
this wretched vermin. Why, he himself . . . But, oh, yes, 
no doubt that she would be kind to him if he were ill — just 
as kind as she was to the rabbit I 

She must have turned back her sleeve in her efforts at 
rescue, for as she raised it, drawing the creature closer to 
her, staring at Hoyland, he saw that the under surface of 
bare forearm was smeared with the same yellow clay as her 
hand." “Dust to dust” — that was all very well — inevitable; 
but could there be anything more revolting than the people 
who met death half-way by this absorption in the things of 
the common earth ? 


198 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


‘'Give it to me — ^give it to me, I say 

“No!” Diana’s face was absolutely white as she raised 
one arm to defend herself and her charge. But what could 
she do? In a moment Hoyland had snatched the rabbit' 
from her, wrung its neck and tossed it aside into the bushes. 

“There!” He flung round again, facing her; it seemed 
as though they had both forgotten the trim, shallow thing, 
still sitting and smiling on the bank above them. 

Once again — as upon that night of the Setons’ dinner- 
party — which until this moment, seemed so far away, com- 
pletely done with — Diana’s expression showed not only 
amazement, horror, but that deep underlying sense of pity. 

“Good God I are there no human beings for you to waste 
your thought, your sympathies upon?” Hoyland’s appeal 
was childish, petulant; to his own surprise he realized that 
he was trembling from head to foot. 

“Yes.” 

For another moment or so, the girl’s steady gaze was upon 
his face, frowning a little, her lips set in a close line of pain, 
as though she were trying to think, to realize what lay at 
the back of him and his actions. 

Then she turned aside, and addressed herself to Miss Her- 
vey gravely and courteously, almost as though nothing had 
happened : 

“Perhaps you will come back to tea with Mr. Hoyland? 

I have to go further up the dale to see to some sheep, but 
I’ll be home in half-an-hour.” 

“Thanks, no: I think I’ll go back to Setons for tea.” 
However much the other two might be stirred, Constance 
Hervey was stilhunmoved ; a little bored by the interruption 
to a carefully-arranged afternoon, more than a little amused : 
the appraising glance which she ran over the other girl was 
insolent ; if she had put it into words she could not have 
said more plainly — “Thank you, but I like my tea free from 
the possibilities of mud, vermin — .” 

It was so clear that the color flooded into Diana’s face; 
but she had that breeding which the other lacked. “An- 
other day, then, any time you feel inclined,” she said; and 
with a slight inclination of her head turned away. 

For a moment or so Miss Hervey sat looking at her own 
hands, pushing back the skin round the carefully-manicured 
nails — ^there had been a discussion at Ox Lee as to how she 
contrived to keep the Setons’ car clean and herself so im- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


199 


maculate : a problem to which Lady Caroline herself had put 
an end — “Calls herself a chauffeur ! A pretty sorter chauf- 
feur ! — Has to have a man to wait on her ; wouldn’t soil the 
tip of that little finger of hers. Lord! how I did always 
hate a woman who quirked her little finger 1” 

As she drew out her cigarette-case and lit a matcl^ she 
gave a little laugh: 

“Really, my dear, I can’t compliment you upon your 
housemates. It’s bad enough at Lady Caroline’s — cold 
water, whips, dogs, horses, square-toed boots, flannel under- 
clothes sort of life — But that Ox Lee menage, good heav- 
ens! The impossible youth, the half-baked mother, the 
appalling factotum person — what is it they call her ? 
Nanny? — ^above all, that girl — Diana of the plow! I do 
think — ” She broke off with a hasty, “Well, what now?” 
suddenly conscious of Hoyland’s hard stare. 

“What a pity” — he spoke meditatively — “what a pity 
that they glazed you!” 

“What in the world do you mean?” 

“Well, a china doll, you know — ^biscuit china — so delight- 
ful in its way — clean, neat, unchanging, cheap. But glazed. 
Oh, well, don’t you see, a sort of extravagance of finish — > 
takes away all the little resemblance it ever had to nature' — ” 

His sullen contemptuous gaze dropped from her shining 
hair, the unvarying pink-and-white of her thick, flawless 
skin, to her polished nails. Ugh! the woman stank of 
varnish ! And what would Diana think ? What would 
Diana think? — Nothing else mattered. 

She came to him in the study, just after tea, that evening. 
It was still light outside, and very warm — ^that still, maternal 
warmth of mid July; but here the heavy curtains were 
drawn, the lamp lighted, a fire burned in the grate. 

For a moment the girl hesitated by the door, her lips 
parted as though she felt some difficulty in drawing her breath 
in an atmosphere so different from that out of which she had 
come. Hoyland rose and offered her a chair, but she would 
not sit down. Her face was very grave as she stood facing 
him across the hearth, one hand resting upon the mantelshelf. 
It struck him that she was thinner, in some ways older- 
looking than she had been a few weeks earlier; and yet 
in a way younger because less sure of herself, puzzled, 
anxious; up against something which she could not under- 
stand. 


200 ^THE LITTLE SOUL 

“Mr. Hoyland, 1 — I think — perhaps it would be better if 
you could make some other arrangement.” 

Hoyland gave a laugh. — “Because of Miss Hervey, eh?” 
He knew that this had nothing whatever to do with the 
case; but it gave him some sort of bitter amusement to 
pretend that Diana was that kind of prude; or, better still, 
jealous. 

But her transparent honesty of purpose, the indifference 
of her, “Oh, no ! What could that possibly have to do with 
me?” swept away even this make-believe, with its salve of 
vanity. 

“Then why?” 

“I don’t think you are happy in the country, I don’t think 
that you’re suited to it. Things get on your nerves — ” 

“You mean this afternoon, what I did?” 

“Not what you did — what it showed.” 

“But, all the same, what I did,” persisted Hoyland — 
“wringing that little beast’s neck for it.” 

“No, no — perhaps the way you did it.” 

“And yet you yourself hunt, fish.” 

“Yes” — she hesitated, looking at him gravely, as though try- 
ing to understand what it was that had so revolted her in his 
action. — Mr. Stendall, or Bob, would have been just as likely 
to persist in putting the little creature “out of its misery.” 

“Look here. Miss Clayton, can’t you see — realize — ” 
Hoyland spoke more roughly than usual, with that sort of 
boyish impetuosity which was so new to him — “it’s more 
than I can stand to see you touching such things — the earth, 
and blood upon your hands. You don’t seem to mind — ” 

“Yes, that’s it; I don’t mind. That’s why we can’t 
understand each other. You fight against, hate things 
which are natural, part of everyday life, and yet you can 
do a thing like that— cruelly, wantonly. You mustn’t think 
that I don’t realize our ways must be as strange tO' you as 
yours are to us, what a different way we look at things here 
in the country. To us — oh, well, one’s nearer to birth, life 
and death — they don’t seem to count for so much : we grow 
to take things as a matter of course that are — oh, well, 
sort of furtive — horrid in books, or to people in towns. I 
suppose we’re more part of the soil that feeds us; we live 
by it ; of course our whole idea of what is clean or unclean 
must be different — 

Hoyland’s sidelong glance was suspicious. What did she 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


201 


mean by that ? One of those sudden, all-engulfing memories 
of things in his life, which nobody by any stretch of sophism 
could call clean, swept across him — scents, sights, words. 
But next moment it was plain that she only hesitated because 
she found it difficult to express what she wished to say and 
yet keep clear of any chance of hurting him. 

‘Things make you angry which wouldn’t make us angry, 
upset you. Of course I know men have been through such 
awful things, out there — that none of you, after all you 
have suffered, can ever be quite the same again.” She 
glanced at his hands — the only person who ever did look 
at them ; her quiet gaze so much less galling than the quickly- 
averted eyes to which, as he told himself, he ought by now 
to be accustomed., “But if you can lose control of yourself 
in that way with a helpless, dumb animal — I am thinking of 
Anthony, Mr. Hoyland.” 

“Afraid of what I might do to Anthony, eh ?” 

“No — not of what you might do, in that sense.” 

“Of my influence, then?” 

“Yes.” 

“It seems to me that, just now, I am the only person who 
has any influence, of any sort, with your brother.” 

Diana did not speak; she was looking at him gravely, as 
though waiting to hear what more he had to say; and he 
went on : 

“Have you thought what it might mean if that influence 
Were suddenly removed? He keeps away from his mother 
as much as possible now; he’s afraid — or so it seems to me 
— afraid of what she may know, what she may be thinking. 
Then, again — you must forgive me for saying so — ^but, as 
things are now, he defies you : will take no notice whatever 
of what you say. That’s so, isn’t it ?” 

It was with difficulty that Hoyland could keep a note of 
triumph out of his voice. 

“Yes, yes, you are right — ^he defies me. But why? He 
never did before; and now — it’s almost as though I were his 
enemy.” 

“And you ‘blame it on me,’ as Nanny would say. Don’t 
you know that men grow up very suddenly: that your 
brother remained a boy, almost a child, longer than most; 
that he is realizing himself now, getting impatient of 
leading-strings, more particularly when those strings are held 
by a woman ?” 


202 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


have thought of that.” 

“But you still feel that I am a bad companion for him? 
That he would be better without me ?” 

“Yes.” The answer was so straight that it astonished 
Hoyland, accustomed as he was to the girl’s directness in any 
matter where she was deeply concerned. 

“It is not that I think you are bad in yourself — only 
bad for him. You have been very patient with us all, with 
our ways, which must have seemed so strange to you ; most 
patient of all with my mother, who has not been — not been 
— well, always at her best with you. But it seems to me that 
it cannot be good for a boy like Anthony, weak and easily 
led, to be with any one who has no particular aim or ambition 
in life. I want him to be — oh, not so much successful as 
happy, really happy. And you — ” 

“You think that I’d be a bad guide in that direction?” 

“I think you are cynical — and cynicism and happiness 
don’t seem to go together.” She spoke slowly, with that 
sort of awkwardness she always showed in any expression of 
her own feelings. “It seems th?.' you mistrust everything 
— that something in your life or ^ jur nature has led you to 
mistrust — ^to — well, in a way resent simple things. That you 
are prepared for — for a sort of horridness in other people ; 
and that you may really look for it until you — oh, until you 
think them into being like that.” 

“Ah, now we have it. You’re afraid that I’ll ‘think’ your 
brother into being ‘horrid’?” He managed a laugh, but 
for all that he was scared by the penetration of her thought 
— she whom he had always, despite his need for her, thought 
of as the slow one of the family — all the more restful be- 
cause so slow ; had named her, in one of those moments of 
spite which seemed to assuage his own pain, “lo, the lovely 
cow.” But then, they were amazing, these Cla3rtons, with 
their stupidities, their insights ! “Come now, do you really 
believe I have nothing, apart from your brother, to interest 
me — that I am so engrossed?” 

“I don’t, somehow, feel that you have very much to think 
of,” answered the girl, with her amazing directness; her 
eyes full upon him. “At least, not very much that really 
matters. Of course, I know how clever you are; what 
you’ve read and seen ; how stupid we must seem to you. But 
still, it does seem that you have nothing which really en- 
grosses you ; and perhaps that — that might start you trespass- 


203 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

ing on other people’s lives, in a sort of way.” She flushed 
as she spoke, that clear flush which comes to women of her 
complexion, as though from some inward light. “If you 
were really engrossed — oh, you know, yourself,” she went 
on ; “you’d have no time for unkindness, malice.” 

“Why do you say that I’m malicious ? Have I ever been 
malicious to you ?” 

“That wouldn’t matter.” She raised her head a little, 
stiffened ; but he did not resent the rebuff, was childishly 
engrossed in the discussion of his own character, had almost 
forgotten the question which led up to it. 

“And unkind. What a character !” He was smiling. 

“Yes, and unkind — ^because you are unhap' p — because you 
have too much time for that sort of thoughl — ” 

“What sort of thought ?” 

“About things that are over — things that can’t be helped. 
It seems now,” she went on, more slowly, is though the 
words came with some difficulty, “as though V wished you to 
go for fear that your unhappiness — your restless unhappi- 
ness — might overcloud my brother’s life. But it isn’t that. 
That would be brutal, cruel. Oh, believe me, it’s not that.” 
She moved a step nearer to him, her face flushed, full of 
feeling. “At least, not only that — not like that, not the un- 
happiness — ” 

“What, then?” 

“Oh, well, it seems as though suffering, life — everything 
had grown to a sort of canker. In other places, with other 
people, people who are cleverer, people who understand, of 
your own sort” — she was thinking of Constance Hervey, and 
he knew it — “it might be different; better for you. But 
here, in this lonely place, where there is nothing but the 
seasons ever happening, where we just go on, you rub your- 
self, rub all of us, to a sore.” 

“And you think that is what’s happened to Anthony?” 

“Yes.” She spoke as though with an effort : and yet quite 
decidedly. “If he was strong enough to be just a man of the 
world, your sort of world, it wouldn’t matter. But he isn’t — 
he’d go — well, you know he’d go all over the place.” 

“He seems to be doing that pretty thoroughly already.” 

Diana’s face had paled ; she made a motion of her head, 
as if she were suddenly afraid to trust her voice to speak. 

“Again and again I’ve put the curb on him — prevented 
him from going off to Sheffield, from drinking more than is 


204 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


good for him — you know that. I’ve interfered between him 
and the friends he’s made : checked him, the insolent young 
fool, when he’s been rude, almost bullying — ^you must ac- 
knowledge that, almost bullying — to your mother.” 

‘‘Yes, but—” 

“But you’d rather I didn’t; rather I went away — ceased 
to interfere ?” Suddenly as it seemed, the girl was defeated ; 
she gave a hopeless gesture with both hands, then, turning 
to the mantelshelf, propped her elbows upon it and rested 
her chin in her open palms. There was a mirror in front 
of her, and Hoyland could see her face, the way in which she 
stared at herself, blankly, her unseeing eyes heavy with tears. 

He did not desire her, never had desired her, in the way in 
which he desired other women ; but now he wanted to take 
her in his arms, to press her head down upon his shoulder, 
to feel her dependent upon him, resting against him like a 
tired child. It seemed as though all the ardor and freshness 
which he had sucked from her brother was now drawn to- 
wards this one end: that she might rest and that he might 
rest, that this new passion, so full of wonder and surprises, 
should yet be based upon a life of rest and security : that 
there should at last be one woman of whom he would never 
grow tired, who would never cloy or weary him, as the others 
had done : that all the while he would be finding cut different 
things — new and unexpected things in life — ^that the coming 
years should be an endless smooth stream of delightful dis- 
coveries, down which he would sail, upborne by that sense of 
youth which was now, each day, gathering strength within 
him. 

So the thing had come to him at last, with an entirety for 
which he could scarcely have hoped. This something which 
he supposed was what he had heard men speak of as tender- 
ness, must be the outcome of his engrafted youth ; though the 
difference between it and the first real spontaneous youth 
lay in the realization, the appreciation of a quality otherwise 
taken for granted. 

Those meetings with Constance Hervey meant nothing; 
had begun while his appetite was still a trifle jaded. But 
from this afternoon all that must be at an end; he could 
not afford to take risks. If Diana were ready to dismiss 
him, it must be because she was afraid of him, beginning to 
doubt him. A sort of clammy fear swept over him as he 
thought of what it might mean if Diana actually pitted her 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


205 


strength against his. In some ways his will was not so 
strong as it had been, he was running it off too persistently in 
one direction. . Supposing she should so bear upon him, upon 
the rest of the people at Ox Lee, upon Lady Caroline and her 
husband, that he were forced to lay down his cards ? With 
the protective instinct which comes to all of us in moments 
of panic, he suddenly realized from whence he might look 
for help, however unwilling. 

“Miss Clayton, you spoke of your mother, of her old mis- 
trust, dislike for me. Will you do this? Will you put it to 
her as to whether I should go or remain — ^abide by her de- 
cision ?” 

Diana hesitated ; she had raised her head and was looking 
at his reflection in the glass, still puzzling : she was so simple, 
so unsubtle in herself, that Hoy land’s subtleties spun a sort 
of web around her, tangled her thoughts. 

“You have a good deal of confidence in Mrs. Clayton’s in- 
stincts. If she likes- me ‘better than she did, if she thinks it 
as well that I should remain until Anthony is ready to go to 
college, couldn’t you trust her judgment?” 

“Of course I trust her ; but I don’t understand — ” 

“What don’t you understand ?” 

“That she should change — if she has changed.” 

“Come now, you yourself think that I’ve improved. Own 
up; you’ve said as much.” 

“It wasn’t you I was thinking of. Mother — well, she likes 
or dislikes. I’ve never known her alter her opinion of a 
person — ” 

“But, surely, if that person alters — turns over a new 
leaf—” 

“People don’t alter.” She turned upon -him there, with 
one of her grave, direct glances. “They vary — they deterio- 
rate, improve, develop — ^but they don’t change.” It was 
her mother’s judgment. 

“Ah, well, if you feel like that. But I put it to you : even 
if I’m only something of a whited sepulcher — count the 
affair of this afternoon as a glimpse into the depths of it — 
there may be reason in her decision, either way. And there’s 
another consideration. Your brother is still working, and 
working well. I can’t treat him like a child, I can’t keep 
him at it all day, I can’t always keep him from breaking 
away. But will any one else keep him at it at all ? And if 
he doesn’t pass into Cambridge, if he doesn’t work — and, of 


206 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


course, you must realize that at times like this the best thing 
in the world would be for him to get among other men of his 
own age — what is he going to do? It’s a pretty grave re- 
sponsibility, Miss Clayton.” 

For a moment or so Diana was silent ; she took up a black 
marble spill-vase from the mantelpiece and turned it round 
in her hand, examined it carefully, then put it down as 
gently as though it had been a morsel of fragile china. 

"‘Yes, you are right; it is a very great responsibility; 
it’s — ” She paused, her eyes heavy, her lips drawn. 
“Sometimes — just now, it seems — ” She shook her head — 
“oh, more than I can bear!” 

“And yet you won’t let me help — ” 

“I think that no one can help. Any one — oh, any one can 
hinder — that’s the awful part of it; and hinder without 
meaning to hinder. But to help — ^to help another — that’s so 
different. I was never undecided about anything before ; but 
now — perhaps you’re right. I don’t understand — only this, 
that Tony is changed, terribly changed — . If s as though he 
were not himself at all, but somebody else, some one I never 
knew, can never know, because I can never understand — 
never. Oh, I know that — not while he is like this ; any more 
than I can understand why he’s like this. It gives one the 
sort of feeling of being in a dark wood, seeing nothing, afraid 
to move. Yes, that’s it ; I am afraid ; and I know that I have 
no right to judge, only— only by what I feel. I’ll do as you 
say — yes, it’s only fair — ask my mother, abide by her de- 
cision.” 

“Absolutely?” Suddenly Hoyland felt as though a weight 
had been lifted from him; like a boy at school, reprieved 
from disgrace, expulsion. 

“Of course. What would be the use of asking her, other- 
wise ?” ' 

“But you hope — ?’' He knew that he was a fool to 
venture even that far, but his old self-confidence, love of 
conquest, was too much for him, and he cursed himself 
afterwards for being such an ass as to imagine that she 
might change color, show some sort of feeling. There was 
a tone which he could throw into his voice which he had 
never before 'known to be without effect ; it was almost 
pathetic how slow he was to lose his belief in it, how amazed 
he felt at Diana’s response — or rather lack of it — ^the weary 
indifference of her voice, wliich made him feel, all of a sud- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


207 


den, as though she were years and years older than himself. 

“I don’t think it matters much what I hope. Hope’s not 
much good for anything.” 


CHAPTER XII 

Anything, anything can be done by will. People are too 
lazy to use their powers, that’s all. They’ve let themselves 
get tangled up with all sorts o-f fantastical beliefs, delusions — 
half afraid of themselves, more afraid of their fellows — have 
settled down under an army of astute priests who manipulate 
the wires of their silly little intelligences to their own end, 
use the sheep habit for all it’s worth. The way they juggle 
with words alone ! Miracles, for instance — not at all the sort 
of thing for the common herd, oh, dear, no ! Tray, oh, yes, 
pray away, but never imagine that you are capable of doing 
anything for yourself.* Canny beggars, those inventors of 
souls! — dangling eternity before their flocks like a bundle 
of moldy hay in front of an ass, which would be much better 
browsing on grass at the roadside. Look here, McCabe, 
if every man chose to realize his own power, use it for all 
it was worth, what would become of professional religionists 
and their box of tricks? Will — will — will — I’ll back it 
against everything, even a balance 'at the bank — and that’s 
saying a good deal. My God, there*s simply no end to the 
power of it — nothing, absolutely nothing beyond it 1” 

This had been a part of many arguments he had used when 
McCabe had stood out for something, not always higher 
than the will, not always, by any means, beneficent ; perhaps 
nothing more than a sort of brute force — a universal press of 
necessity which was yet the master of determination. ‘‘A 
jolly lot of good all your willing with an empty belly,” Mc- 
Cabe said, ‘‘with a cancer eating out your throat — one lung 
gone. Fm not .much of a hand at religion myself, but it 
strikes me that the prayers of a righteous man, etc. — Your 
will may fight on after it*s beaten — just butting away, inevi- 
tably beaten in the end. The will to live may keep death at 
bay, that*s all — there’s more to life than that. No one can 
follow my profession and not know it ; something which’ll 
uphold some poor devil through a perfect hell of physical suf- 
fering and yet slip away with the prick of — how does it go? 
— ‘a bare bodkin.’ Something so damnably elusive, so slight 


208 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


and yet beyond all our power of holding, willing — something 
apart, that we feel, pretty well see, when we drop a man’s 
hand and say — out of sheer habit, mind you — ‘It’s all over/ 
All over ! I wonder if there’s any medical man living who 
hasn’t felt himself baulked — suddenly and completely baulked 
— helpless — at moments like that; just the blatantest liar; 
with that Something, which he knows will never be ‘over,* 
at his very elbow.” 

“An inherited imagination. You’ve got it, McCabe, — a sort 
of germ every man more or less seems to catch,” Hoyland 
would mock. “Men were frightened of death, and so they 
invented eternal life — against every proof of reason — have 
grown to believe in it. Whoever said : ‘All that a man hath 
will he not give in exchange for his life,’ slipped into a truth. 
It’s the only thing he’s ever likely to have — the key industry, 
so to speak. So long as he has life there is every sort of ex- 
tra available to him, brain, will, desire, and — oh, yes. I’ll con- 
cede you that much — a something else, which is a sort of 
compound of character, hereditary, insight and instinct; that 
odd fluid part of a man which your professional religionists 
pretend to believe goes on for ever. For ever, and ever, and 
ever, mind you ! They don’t really believe it ; if they do* they 
are scared to the death of it. They go into mourning; they 
say : ‘Poor So-and-So was so fond of flowers,’ and heap rot- 
ting vegetation round a decaying body which they profess 
to despise. They tie themselves up into such knots that 
they don’t know which is their left hand and which is their 
right — mesmerize themselves with their mummery. If they 
would cultivate the will as it can be cultivated — if they 
would learn to use that part of themselves which is — well, 
let’s give it any name you like — ^psychic power — if you can 
acknowledge psychology without immortality — instead of 
frittering themselves away on that stupendous vanity of 
eternal life, there’s no end to what they might, men in the 
aggregate, I mean, accomplish.” 

The will ! He felt himself swell with a sense of power at 
the evidence of his old assertions. Why, the thing went be- 
yond his own most arrogant expectations. He realized how 
men might feel imagining «themselves gods : taking humanity 
between a finger and thumb in this fashion : moving an in- 
dividuality here, there, like the pieces upon a chess-board. 

A bigger man might have grown frightened of his own 
achievement; but Hoyland’s curiosity, sense of exhilaration. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 209 

was far greater than his awe. There are, indeed, natures 
incapable of awe, and his was one. 

For a long while the whole affair was rendered the more 
exciting by its fluctuations. Within himself flashes of a 
quite new insight, fresh powers of enjoyment, came and 
went. Sometimes, in between these, he went back to his old 
habit of mind ; at other times he was conscious of a sense of 
dead fatigue, as though something were gone out of him. 
In moments such as these it seemed as though he were 
neither himself nor Anthony; and then, if ever, there was 
a sense of panic. 

But these times were few and far between : he was begin- ^ 
ning to taste, as he had never done before, the “fun’^ of life. 
Diana grew upon him : he realized possibilities of delight 
which had been a sealed book. He had always observed, 
now he felt : felt things which were quite apart from passion. 
He used words that he had never used before, simply because 
they were so alien to his nature as to be without meaning, 
even in his childhood. 

Downstairs earlier than he had ever been before, one day 
during the first week in August, he went out of doors into 
the hot, still air, blue with the haze of morning. The grass 
upon the further side of the lawn, which had already had one 
crop of hay off it, was fine and sparse, brilliantly green, as 
are all such second crops: starred with small moon-daisies, 
crimson sorrel seeds, mauve scabius, all pale and delicate, the 
children of a late life; silvered over with dew. The cedar- 
tree, like dim blue velvet, melted into the sky : the plain was 
indistinguishable from the distant hills, which showed only 
by a faint wash of color along their extreme heights. Be- 
yond the sunk fence — where the sheep-pens had stood that 
far-away day of his arrival — there was a flare of yellow rag- 
wort and a fresh strip of plow, purplish in the soft light. 

As he went round to the side of the house, Diana opened a 
gate and let out the cows from the yard. 

“A jolly morning!’^ cried Hoyland, and she looked at 
him and nodded with a puzzled air. He would not have 
said that a couple of months ago : the change in him fright- 
ened her almost as much as the change in her brother, for 
it seemed as though she were losing her bearing. 

The cows moved a little sideways past Hoyland, and then 
to the right through another gate which led into the home 
meadow — sloping to a marshy bottom, gray with willows — 


210 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


their shining dappled flanks like ripe horse-chestnuts : thir- 
teen of them, and only Diana and a boy left to milk them. 
He wondered what time she was up in the morning, and a 
fancy seized him that some day he would come downstairs at 
dawn and see if he could catch the household asleep — im- 
possible to imagine Nanny without her armor, her thick, 
clumping shoes, her all-enveloping white apron, that look 
of obstinate dislike which had become so fixed upon her red- 
grained face that it seemed as though she must be souring 
inwardly. But he pictured Diana with her head pillowed 
upon her arm, the thick black lashes on her soft, flushed 
cheek; and for once the thought came to him, fresh and 
free from all comparison. 

This special morning Anthony was later than he had ever 
been. It was close upon half-past ten when he lounged 
into the study, took the cigarette from his mouth to 
yawn: 

“Look here, do you mind if I cut work to-day? I want 
to go into Sheffield — see a chap I know.’* 

“You went into Sheffield a couple of days ago.” 

“Oh, well, one’s got to do something — ” With a shrug 
of his shoulders the boy moved towards the window and 
stood staring out, both hands deep in his coat pockets. By 
leaning a little forward in his chair Hoyland could catch 
sight of his profile ; it seemed that his face had grown heav- 
ier ; the clear, almost girlish pink-and-white of his skin was 
replaced by a dusky sallowness. 

“You’ll never get through your exams if you go on like 
this.” Hoyland was conscious of a real sense of disap- 
proval. It was almost as though he were beginning to be a 
little shocked at young Clayton, as he had made him. 

“Oh, hang the exam! There are more important things 
than exams in life : after all, it isn’t as though I’d got to make 
my own living.” 

“Well, if that’s how you feel ! But if you don’t mean to 
work, what am I here for?” said Hoyland. 

“Ah, there you have it!” Anthony flung round, staring 
hardly, half insolently. In a flash Hoyland saw him as he 
had once seen himself. “Why are you here? — or, rather 
why do you stay here?” Suddenly he flung back his head 
and laughed harshly. “If you ask me. I’d say : 'Cherchez la 
femme' — eh? — Anything you want in Sheffield? No? 
Then I’ll be going.” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


211 


He had his hand upon the door when he hesitated, turned 
, again with that look of odd hesitation which even now broke 
off his most defiant moods. 

“Look here, Mr. Hoyland, I’ll do some work when I come 
back this evening; ’pon my word I will. But this morning, 
you know — such a jolly morning to waste indoors, swot- 
ting.” ^ 

“A jolly morning !” Well, there were his own words. A 
little longer and the change would become concrete, fixed; 
the only danger to guard against was that he might lose the 
power of realizing it, and so miss half the appreciation. 
Meanwhile the old Anthony came and went; it was like the 
shadow of the mare, that night, driving home from Setons’; 
there were still odd twists, distortions, sudden starts, rever- 
sions, in this new Anthony. It was all very well for the 
boy to take himself off to Sheffield, but half his own amuse- 
ment went with him. For there was no end to his pleasure 
in watching Anthony, by turns sullen, restless, glowering; 
with odd, wild bursts of gayety. The new Anthony and the 
old Anthony like a couple in a dance: now one advancing, 
now another: approaching, touching, retreating, feinting: 
first one, then the other, holding the floor : while he felt the 
same ebb and flow in himself, rising and falling inversely 
to the other’s mood ; was happiest when Anthony was most 
sadly bitter, with that deep bitterness and despair of youth 
which is unable to understand itself. 

Now and then it seemed as though there were actually four 
of them at it — a pas de quatre — ^but gradually two of the 
party dropped out. 

No wonder that it had seemed a jolly morning, for it 
brought with it a very definite, clear-cut triumph. 

The sun was almost too hot in the study, and he took his 
book into the drawing-room. The green Venetian blinds 
were down : the tempered light like a cool wash of pale-green 
water, in which the faded chintzes, the spindle-legged tables 
and whatnots, the faintly-colored paintings upon the walls, 
the delicate china, floated apart from everything which had 
to do with actual daily life or necessity: indeed, the only 
person who ever used it seemed to be Mrs. Clayton with her 
flute. 

She came into the room now, before Hoyland had been 
there more than half-an-hour. Carrie, at her heels, hesita- . 
ted in the doorway, bristling, for of late her dislike had grown 


212 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


more and more insistent, she trembled if Hoy land put out a 
hand to touch her, though from a safe distance she showed 
her teeth, snarled; but Mrs. Clayton came straight forward 
into the room, hesitated a moment, and then smiled. 

“Anthony, I thought you were in the study or had gone 
out. Anthony, I want — ” Suddenly she broke off, a pit- 
eous, wild look came into her face; for the very first time 
since Hoyland knew her she put out both hands, gropingly, 
like any other blind person, trembling from head to foot: 
“It is Anthony ? It — it — Oh, but, oh, what have you done 
with my boy? What have you done with my boy? — ^you 
stranger, you dreadful stranger, you !” 

The triumph had been short-lived, but it was there. “When 
she mistakes me for him, then I shall be sure — ” that was 
what Hoyland had said : and the mistake had been made. 

“I think that you might give him back to me. He’s noth- 
ing to you, you can do nothing with him.” The blind wo- 
man had gained command of herself, spoke quietly, rea- 
sonably, as she seemed capable of doing when the welfare of 
one of her children was in question; though her face was 
absolutely white, and she rested one hand upon the back of a 
chair as if to support herself. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“You know what I mean — it will come to no good end, 
I tell you. Even Lucifer, Lucifer, Son of the Morning, fell 
over just such an issue. Though he pulled down — oh, God 
only knows who he pulled down with him !” 

“Look here, Mrs. Clayton, if we understand each other 
so well, let’s at least be frank. You are afraid that I am 
having some sort of a bad influence over your son — and why ? 
Because of his going off to Sheffield — Sheffield of all places 
to sow your wild oats ! — ^because he is less even-tempered, 
docile, less the good little mother’s boy. . . . You imagine 
him as going headlong to ruin, propelled in some strange 
and obscure way by his villainous tutor — a sort of fiction 
tutor, something between Mephistopheles and Heathcote. 
But what you don’t realize is that he is growing from boy- 
hood — almost childhood — to manhood : that you can’t go on 
keeping a boy of nineteen in leading-strings. He’s got his 
own money. ... If any one’s to blame there, it’s your 
daughter : she herself told me that she had paid money into 
the bank in his name — ^given him a check-book, thinking 
that it would make him learn the value of it. The theory 


THE LITTLE SOUL; 


213 


is right, but it has failed here ; as so many well-intentioned 
theories do fail, because they pre-suppose virtues which very 
few possess. I don’t see what I can do. I can’t whip him, 
I can’t shut him up in his room until he’s finished his 
task.’’ 

‘‘Oh, but you can, you can — ^you know you can.” 

‘‘What can I do?” 

“Everything — everything. Take yourself away from him.” 

“That means my dismissal ?” 

“No; you know better — you’re too horribly clever not 
to know that your actual bodily withdrawal — leaving Ox 
Lee — ” She hesitated, a look of infinite dejection which 
was almost sullen in its despair came into her face. “You 
know, only it amuses you to play with me — . I have told 
you before why I can’t let you go. Oh, I’m helpless, help- 
less. A blind old woman, and helpless !” she cried : then 
turned away with a dragging step, moving indeed like an 
old woman, and made her way out of the room. Hoyland 
heard her go upstairs : a few moments later the clear, far- 
away notes of her flute came floating down to him. 

So he had driven her out of her own special sanctum, had 
he ? If he could only drive her a little further ; her and her 
precious son — so much as was left of him — that Nanny, with 
her fierce, challenging stare, — and have Diana to himself, 
once and for all. Why, if he could get her free from her 
preoccupations with her half-crazed family, this filthy farm, 
there was no knowing what she might not bring to him in 
the way of new life. 


CHAPTER XIII 

Week after week slid by, during which Hoyland was, for 
the most part, conscious of an extraordinary sense of ex- 
hilaration, as though he were being swept forward on the 
crest of a wave. He was no longer very greatly engrossed 
by Anthony : the boy was sinking as he swam — there was no 
doubt about that — ^breasting the billows with all the heady 
delight of youth. 

Here was no dull level of sea. Diana was difficult and 
aloof; whatever progress he had made in her esteem was 
gone. If it were not plain that she was built upon too gen- 
erous lines for such pettiness, he might have thought that 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


214 ! 

those gray eyes of hers watched him with the hope that he 
might in some way definitely commit himself. 

That was the one fear in his own heart. At times his 
every thought and feeling was so clearly fresh that it was 
shown, unmistakably, through his every word; while his 
very expression gathered a sort of candor. But there were 
other days when the beast within him whined through the 
bars, with roving, lustful eyes. 

His great difficulty at this time was even to appear to keep 
any sort of a hold upon Anthony: if that illusion vanished 
there could be no possible reason for his remaining at Ox 
Lee; he would have overshot himself, and his own ends 
would be defeated. But it was not always easy to cover the 
boy’s open insolence. The one point in his favor was that 
his pupil did not give up his work. There were odd days 
when he could settle to nothing — days which followed upon 
his visits to Sheffield, or those evenings, that were beginning 
to be whispered of, when he caroused with the farm yokels, 
small clerks and quarry-hands in the public-house which 
stood at the four cross-roads between Ox Lee and Peak 
Forest station — ^but at other times he seemed to be possessed 
with a passion for learning. 

One evening, close upon ten o’clock, Nanny came into the 
study and told Hoyland that Reuben Haele was wishful to 
speak to him. 

“Is he in the hall ? I’ll come out to him.” 

“Miss Diana’s in the hall ; ’e’ll come along ter you ’ere.” 
It was a mandate, not a suggestion. The woman did not 
look at him as she spoke, turned her head sideways with her 
sharply-angled chin in the air ; not as though she wished to 
avoid his eye, but rather save her own. 

Hoyland half thought of debating the point. But this 
was one of the days when he could not feel very sure of any- 
thing. There were such times ; always when Anthony was 
away, out of sight, when he could not be certain what he was 
doing. Sometimes he imagined it was when the boy was 
drunk, and he was certainly taking a great deal more than 
was good for him, that he lost his hold upon things; was 
overcome by a suspicion that Anthony had got all there was 
of him, while what he had of Anthony was so negative as 
to leave him empty. 

In addition to this he was never quite sure how much the 
country people knew, with their shy, sly glances : better not 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


215 


to insist, even for the sake of his own dignity, upon seeing 
Reuben where there was any chance of Diana overhearing 
what was said. 

Not that Nanny gave him any chance, for she merely 
turned and beckoned with a jerk of her thumb towards the 
back premises. 

As Reuben entered, heavy, sheepish, — stooping as though 
bowed to the earth in which he habitually worked, his bat- 
tered felt hat pressed against his breast — she did not leave 
the room, merely shut the door and stood with her hand upon 
the handle. Hoyland glanced at her significantly, with 
raised brows, but she creased one thin lip tight above the 
other. 

“ ’Ere I bide. If so be that it’s got ter do with my 
boy, it’s got ter do with me.” She folded her arms as she 
spoke. 

Reuben shuffled his heavy boots on the floor ; dropped his 
built man of a uniform red-brown tint. In that warm room 
head sideways, raising his deep-set eyes. He was a heavily 
the stench of soil and flesh and manure was as palpable as 
though he were breast to breast with Hoyland, pushing aside 
the perfume of good cigarettes, clean linen and bath salts 
which hung around him. 

“It’s this way, yer see: the young maister’s down along 
o’ ‘Silent Woman,’ and there’s a roughish lot o’ them quarry- 
men there, seeing as ’ow it’s Saturday night an’ all.” 

“Well?” Hoyland’s voice was smoothly indifferent. 

Haele shuffled his feet again and was silent for a moment ; 
while Nanny opened her mouth, then bit back her words un- 
der a couple of front teeth, pressed so tight above her lower 
lip that it was beaded with blood. 

“It’s like this ’ere. It ain’t not the proper sorter place fur 
young maister ter be, along o’ that there lot. It ain’t not 
so much the liquor, in a manner o’ speaking — not ter say the 
liquor” — he muttered shamefacedly, twisting at the brim of 
his hat. 

“I’m his tutor, not his nurserymaid. All that has nothing 
to do with me. I’m here to teach him classics, not manners 
or common-sense. Thank God — !” Hoyland broke off, 
hating his own volubility, so new, so difficult to control: it 
would have been quite enough to bid this lout mind his own 
business. 

“Devil ! Devil ! ’Arken to you ! A devil, that’s what you 


216 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


be, an’ I don’t care who ’ears me say it, neither. Up ter the 
ill-begotten day as yer set yer evil foot inside o’ this ’ere 
door . . It was Nanny, the words torn from her like a 
shriek of split calico. 

“Now then! just you bide quiet, woman.” Reuben broke 
in upon her with sudden, loud decision: then flung up his 
head and thrust it forward towards Hoyland with the stub- 
born threatening motion of a bull. 

“Look ’ere, you, whatsumever yer call yersen — an’ yon 
female’s not far out, neither — ^yer cornin’ along o’ I, an’ no 
mistake about it, neither 1 So ther. Mister Tutor, yer ’ave 
it, fair an’ square.” 

“Where, may I ask?” The contempt of the tone did not 
disguise the weakness of the question. Hoyland realized 
this before the words were out of his mouth, yet could not 
stop himself. 

“Ter get young maister out er that.” 

“It’s got nothing to do with me, I tell you.” 

“ ’Earken ter ’im, ’earken ter ’im !” cried Nanny. “The 
brazenness on ’im! What were the boy like afore ever ’e 
came ? tell me that — Oughtn’t I ter know ? — I as dandled ’im 
from the day as ’e was born. ’Im with his pretty ways, ’an 
’is blue eyes so like ’is mammy’s, and the fine clean limbs 
o’ ’im. Near on a man ’e was, an’ simple as any babe un- 
born until that there spawn o’ Hell were set upon us. An’ 
now, with all ’is drinking an’ carousing, ’is shameful doxeys 
— that there piece up at Setons as ’is lordship the tutor ’as 
done wid an’ chucked aside — an’ the good God only knows 
what o’ cards an’ company and stinking baggages in them 
there great cities where he ’ticed ’im — my boy, my boy! — • 
Oh, Lord ’a mercy. Lord ’a mercy !” 

The tears choked her, and flinging her apron over her head, 
she half turned, leant sideways against the lintel of the door. 

“Now, then. Mister Tutor, get yer ’at an’ yer coat, or 
whatsumever it may be — mare’s in trap.” 

It was as though Reuben were actually throwing the 
weight of his great body against the other man, pushing him 
to his will, though he had not moved a step forward. One 
could not even think of spiritual power in connection with 
such a creature — rustic lout — and yet there must have been 
some primitive force which was not wholly physical. 

“Cum along.” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


217 


“I’ll be damned — ” began Hoyland sullenly; but he was 
drawn, and he knew it : showed it by his very sullenness. 

“Outer that, Missus !” Reuben laid his hand upon 
Nanny’s shoulder and moved her gently to one side, cram- 
ming his hat on his head. 

“Now then.” He glanced at Hoyland, then jerked his 
chin in the direction of the passage : “I ain’t not goin’ ter 
moither the young missus about this ’ere ; this ’ere’s a man’s 
job.” 

“A man!” Nanny dropped her apron to crow; but Reu- 
ben did not even glance back to see whether Hoyland was 
following him. It was as though he had said, “Yup!” to 
one of his cart horses ; so sure ol obedience that he made no 
motion of his hand toward the whip ; and after a moment’s 
hesitation Hoyland picked up his cap and followed him. 

“Anything to save that poor girl any more trouble,” he 
told himself, lying on the top of his thoughts. For Diana’s 
possible pain was no reason for his docility, and Jie knew it : 
rather that feeling of being at sea in the dark; of having 
reached a point when he was not even — and this for the first 
time in his life — sure of himself ; scared by the sensation 
which had come to him more than once of late, as if he had 
started something it was beyond his power to control. 

“The Gadarene swine 1” — that was the simile that came to 
him as the trap rocked at the tail of the bay mare — smart- 
ing under the plowman’s use of rein and whip — down the 
steep hills and round the sweeping curves which led to the 
Peak Forest cross-roads ; though whether it was more ap- 
plicable to himself or his pupil he could not have said: 
perhaps to all of them, even the stolid man at his side — ^to 
humanity itself ; yet more than all others to Anthony Clay- 
ton and himself, so strangely loosed from all bonds of char- 
acter and habit. 

The bar and parlor of “The Silent Woman” were, both 
alike, incredibly sordid, and Hoyland’s stomach turned at 
the first breath of the rank smoke, the liquor and sweat- 
laden air, following as it did upon the pure fragrance of the 
outer world. 

Both rooms were full of men, for the most part navvies — 
still in their shirt-sleeves and corduroys, as they had worked 
all day — with a sprinkling of narrow-chested, hatchet- faced 
clerks. In one corner forgathered a group of farm-laborers, 


218 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


with their mugs of ale ; speechless, their mouths open, gorm- 
ing. But the quarry-men dominated the scene. They were 
the landlord’s best customers, and he did not dare to op- 
pose them; though it was certain that the parlor, with its 
pretentious gentility — ^that look of an outworn and slat- 
ternly woman of the street, pretending to an over-late re- 
spectability — with its ancient piano, yellowed oleographs and 
many ornaments, had been originally prepared for a better 
sort of client He. 

There was a hoarse roar of laughter as Hoyland put his 
hand upon the door, breaking off as suddenly as it had begun. 
When he entered there was silence : no one turned a head or 
spoke. He had an impression of something almost incredi- 
bly gross and primitive ; huge bowed shoulders, crimson bull- 
like necks and bullet-heads — ^the hair cropped at the back 
and tousled low over the forehead — amid a haze of smoke. 
There was a thin cackle of forced merriment from the bar- 
maid ; but for the rest, it was as though that deep roar of 
laughter had burst forth from the depths of those clod-like 
beings like the blastings that shook the greater dales at 
irregular intervals throughout each day. 

Then a slightly blurred voice took up what was evidently 
the climax of an exceedingly d^'rty tale, with a slow sweetness 
of intonation which made it .n even worse than it would 
otherwise have done. 

It v/as Anthony Clayton., I i e leant back against the bar, 
with the points of both elbow , upon it, a glass in one hand. 
He wore no waistcoat, and i\y front of his shirt was open, 
his tie on one side : a lock ol ’lair hung almost in his eyes, 
winch were curiously dilated hiA glassy. As he neared the 
climax of his tale, he paused, glanced round at his audience, 
solemnl}^ winked; then made his point and tossed off the 
contents of his glass. 

There was a moment’s hesitation while they took it in. 
Then, once again, came that hoarse roar of laughter : break- 
ing off suddenly, followed by the barmaid’s high-pitched, self- 
conscious cackle, with the genteel little cough at the end 
of it. 

Hoyland elbowed his way up to the bar and asked for a 
glass of ale, realizing that it was of no use to attempt any- 
thing high-handed, with his pupil in this mood, surrounded 
by his friends. 

Anthony’s blue eyes were bloodshot. He glanced at him 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


219 


sideways : resentful, and yet in a way puzzled, as though his 
tutor’s presence in that place drew his mind to something 
which he was unable to understand, account for. 

"‘Hullo, Mr. Hoyland,” he said: then, “What the — what 
the — Oh, well — unexpected honor, an’ all that; but I’ll 
be damned — ” He shrugged his shoulders and, breaking 
off again, stretched out one unsteady hand, touched the hairy 
arm of a man who stood to the right of him, his shirt-sleeves 
rolled up far above the elbow. 

“I say, I wonder if you ever heard the story of . . 
He bent more forward, and whispered. 

“Spit un out, Maister !” It was a roar. 

“Cum along; damn it all, cum along; gie us another o’ 
that there breed.” 

“A’ right . . . but, here. Miss, fill this up first.” The boy 
twisted round and pushed his nobbier along the counter to 
the barmaid, who filled it with brandy — ^then glairced at 
Hoyland. 

“I’m afraid we may shock this gentleman.” 

“Oh, damn the gentleman! If we ain’t good enough for 
the likes o’ ’im, ’e can clear out.” Looks of sullen contempt 
were cast at the tutor, and Anthony grinned as he embarked 
upon his story. 

In its own way it was a good one ; more subtle than the 
last ; surpassing it in sheer viciousness, though not quite so 
blatantly unclean. But where in the world had the boy got 
it from ? It was not at all the sort of story for youth, or for 
mixed company, and not for anything would Hoyland have 
lowered his own dignity by permitting his inferiors to hear 
such a thing from his lips. No ; it took a young fool like 
Anthony Clayton, with no savoir faire, to regale a crew of 
this sort with such caviare of the brothel. 

He was genuinely horrified. It seemed revolting that a 
boy of his age, supposedly a gentleman — the brother of the 
girl he himself intended to marry — should be guilty of such 
behavior. What was the world coming to ? 

The second story was not so successful as the first, and it 
wasn’t likely that it would be. Apart from the subtlety of 
the thing, Anthony had drunk that last glass of brandy be- 
fore he embarked upon it, and the fine ironical point was so 
blurred that his audience shouted to him to speak up ; while 
the guffaw which followed showed more of contempt than 
laughter. 


220 THE LITTLE SOUL 

darn^t not see much in that there/' twas the general 
verdict. 

The boy was plainly crestfallen, though he affected a 
sneer. 

He drooped so heavily against the bar that it seemed as 
though his legs were going to give way under him ; and when 
Hoyland touched his arm, suggesting that they should go 
now, mentioned the waiting trap, he allowed himself to be 
drawn from the room without a protest. 

The fresh air outside overcame him. Clinging to the back 
rail of the trap, he felt the ground heaving in immense stag- 
gering waves beneath his feet. It was as though it took 
him, turned him bodily upside down ; till at last this sea of 
his own sick imagining, his throbbing head, the shivers run- 
ning over his heated body, were too much for him, and he 
was horribly ill. 

Reuben Haele sat impassive in the driving-seat; nobody 
spoke ; after a while, with a heavy groan, Anthony made as 
though to climb into the back of the cart, but Hoyland 
checked him. 

“Get up in front. I don't want to have you breaking your 
neck on the road," he said, and helped the lad’s inert length 
into the deeply-sunken seat at Reuben's side, then climbed 
up at the back. 

They went slowly, for it was nearly all uphill. The whole 
world was flooded with clear moonlight, as it had been the 
night they drove back from Setons'. As they rose they could 
see the clefts of the dales like dark fingers spread out upon 
the smooth bleached slopes ; the sky, lightly flecked with an 
occasional pale amber cloud, was clear indigo ; the air fresh 
and sweet. 

Hoyland had not so much as put his lips to the ale which 
he had ordered and paid for. He had been exhilarated by 
wine that night of the dinner-party ; but now he was exhil- 
arated by something far better, a sense of lightness and 
clearness, of youth and power. All that fear and hesitation 
which had oppressed him when Reuben Haele first came to 
the study that night was gone. Once again he swam as 
Anthony Clayton sank, springing from off him, spurning 
him with his foot. 

The smell of liquor offended him, as it does offend the man 
who does not drink of it. The boy’s young body, so close 
against his own, reeked with the sordid odors of “The Silent 


THE LITTLE SOUL - 


221 


Woman.” He would kill himself if he didn’t look out. That 
was what would happe i. Hoyland’s mind paused upon the 
thought ; and then added — What better could happen ? 

Diana came out to the porch to meet them, with a lamp in 
one hand. There was no sign of Nanny, but as she showed 
no surprise, it was evident that the old servant had prepared 
her : obliterating herself now, so that she might not witness 
her nursling’s shame under the very eye of the man she 
abhorred, held guilty of it. 

Reuben got down and helped his young master to the 
ground. After which Diana — who had handed the lamp to 
Hoyland, without a word — drew him into the hall and then, 
by an untold effort of strength, up the stair. 

The boy’s face was ghastly ; his mouth hung a little open ; 
his eyes, half-closed, showed slits of white, but no pupils. 
As his sister moved slowly upwards, with one arm round his 
waist, the other hand clutching the banister, his legs were 
almost doubled under him; his head drooped sideways so 
that it touched her shoulder. 

Nanny must have been watching; for the moment they 
were out of sight she came running into the hall ; took a big 
kettle of water from off the glowing logs, and hurried up- 
stairs, her white apron drawn aside with one hand, the heels 
of her felt slippers flapping. 

The door of Anthony’s room was closed; the house was 
still. The dogs, which had followed the little procession to 
the foot of the stairs — twisting all sideways, wagging their 
tails — returned to the hearth and sat down, gazing sadly into 
the embers, their attitude one of resigned despair. 

As for Hoyland, he went upstairs, undressed, and got into 
bed, with a sense of such self-satisfaction, such unctuous 
self-esteem, as might have possessed the Good Samaritan. 
Diana must now realize, could not fail to realize, how care- 
ful an eye he kept upon her brother, what pains he went to 
for her sake. As she helped the limp revolting figure across 
the hall he had murmured his condolences : 

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you.” 

Where would Anthony be now if he had not gone to the 
rescue? Prone on the foul floor of “The Silent Woman!” 

He went to sleep upon this ; then, an hour or so later, he 
awoke suddenly to the recollection of those stories. They 
were his own stories I He had told them again and again ; 
though always to a picked circle of friends. Where in the 


222 THE LITTLE SOUL 

world could the boy have got hold of them? Certainly not 
from him. 

There was a sudden jolt at this. How could he be sure — 
however certain of them having remained actually unspoken 
— that it was not from him, after all?. 

He felt the sweat prick out upon his body. He was 
scared ; he had started the strange transference^ of self ; but 
could he put any bounds to it ? Where was it going? Where 
would it end ? In Anthony's possession of his entire past ? — 
reliving what he himself had lived? — gathering away from 
him all his fruits of experience, sweet as well as bitter ? 


CHAPTER XIV 

Four days after this Lady Caroline sent for Hoyland. It 
was not an invitation to tea, it was a royal command, for a 
specified time — ^three-thirty ; the sort of hour when one does 
not feel the offer of hospitality in any way incumbent upon 
one. 

He told himself that he'd be damned if he’d go. But An- 
thony, in a condition of sullen depression, had quite ceased 
to amuse him ; it was like landing a sluggish fish who gives 
no play to the angler. Diana was absorbed arid silent; it 
was impossible to say what she thought. Hoyland had qualms 
of fear that she was planning something at the back of that 
calm, grave demeanor. After all, one never quite knew what 
those apparently candid and simple people might not be at. 

He was nervous, with that new nervousness which alter- 
nated with his bursts of spirits, exhilaration. Everything 
seems a matter of compensation in this world ; one can hold 
so much, and no more. With all pouring in there is a corre- 
sponding spilling over and loss. He had gained a sort of 
youth, but he had lost the sureness of maturity. 

Still his old restlessness remained. At times like this, 
when Anthony was so much dead-weight upon him, when 
Diana and the whole world at Ox Lee seemed to have con- 
demned him — forced to a temporary silence, to a delayed 
sentence, by nothing more than the habitual slowness of their 
life and ways — ^he found himself unable to keep still. He had 
thoughts of making such love to Diana as would break through 
all opposition ; was in the mood for rape. But something of 
the old animal greed was gone, vitiated by a sort of senti- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 22B 

mentality. He wanted and yet he did not want — or perhaps 
it was that he wanted more than he had ever wanted before. 

The days were drawing in, and it was now close upon the 
end of September. He had a sickly idea, for which he de- 
spised himself, that when the autumn and winter were over 
he would win Diana with the spring ; it was like Tennyson's 
"‘Queen of the May." 

^ He was a fool, getting nothing, giving all. On this par- 
ticular day the thought of the uneventful afternoon drag- 
ging its- length to an endless evening proved too much for 
him ; and though he had not answered Lady Caroline’s note, 
never intended to go, he turned up at Setons’ ; a little late, 
as a salve to his own pride. Anyhow, old Caroline, “Carrie 
the First," as Constance Hervey called her, had never failed 
to amuse him. 

But upon this particular day she was far from amusing. 
A few months ago and the whole interview would have de- 
lighted Hoyland ; but he had lost his nerve ; his sardonic 
sense of humor was gone. He could laugh at silly, childish 
jokes which he would have despised, b^ut Lady Caroline 
cowed him. 

She received him in state in the drawing-room ; not in the 
library, where, in general, the whole party congregated; 
where no one ever read; where there were as many whips 
and dogs, sporting and agricultural papers as there were 
books — the “Glory-hole" he had heard the mistress of the 
house call it. 

She came in from the garden, where she labored like any 
navvy, wearing a big leather apron and a preposterous hat, 
tied under her chin with a piece of string. But, all the same, 
she was immensely imposing; in an odd way she reminded 
him of the cliffs of Dover ; so impregnably English, so sure 
of herself. 

Her small black eyes were cold and inimical in that vast 
expanse of countenance; her upper lip, with its iron-gray 
mustache, was folded as tightly as Nanny’s; they were all 
the same, these hide-bound country people, despite the dif- 
ferences of class. 

She did not offer her hand, though she drew off her rough 
gardening gloves; but told him to sit down, indicating a 
chair, and then plunged straight into her subject.^ 

“I sent for you because I want to hear the rights of all 
this talk about my godson." 


224 * 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


‘‘May I ask what talk? There are so many varying 
winds \” Hoyland essayed one of his most persuasive smiles, 
but it dropped dead before Lady Caroline’s impassive gravity. 

‘T think you know what I mean.” 

“I’m afraid I can’t even guess.” 

“If that was true, that alone would show how very com- 
pletely you have failed in your duties.” She was at once 
shrewd and stern, perfectly self-possessed. It was odd to 
think that this was the woman who could rap out such fine, 
mouth-filling “damns,” whom he had seen almost roystering. 
She sat very upright upon a high chair, her hands on either 
arm; a sweeping, almost unbroken curve from chin down- 
ward. Hoyland did not speak; he hated himself for the 
knowledge that his face was sullen; if he could only have 
seemed amused ! 

“Since you refuse to be frank with me, I ask you nothing. 
I tell you what you know already. He is everlastingly up 
in Sheffield, alone; back at all hours. When he is not in 
Sheffield, he is in that disreputable public-house at the cross- 
roads to Forest Peak, or making love to my chauffeur- 
secretary.’* 

“You can hardly blame me for that.” 

“No, and I don’t blame her, either. I don’t waste words. 
Anyhow, she’s going next week. And for you — my husband 
and I have been talking it over, Mr. Floyland, and we both 
think it would be better if you also made a change.” 

“You mean leave Ox Lee ?” 

“Yes, that’s what I do mean.” 

‘‘You’re not a particularly young woman. Lady Caroline, 
haven’t you yet learnt the mistake of interfering in other 
people’s concerns ?” 

“Of course your salary will be paid up to Christmas.” 
Her voice was as imperturbable as though he had not so 
much as spoken. 

Hoyland rose from his chair, so roughly and clumsily that 
it clattered to the floor. 

“I’ll be damned if I take your notice to quit. I’ll be 
damned if — ” 

Lady Caroline had also risen : “Well, think it over,” she 
said calmly. One hand was in the pocket of her leather 
apron. Maybe she was in search of her handkerchief ; but 
she had been picking snails from off the chrysanthemum 
beds, and absent-mindedly she drew out two or three, looked 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


225 


at them and put them back again ; pulled her apron on one 
side, and fumbled for the patch-pocket of her skirt, which 
her own bulk hid from view. 

Nothing could have been more ridiculous — in the telling; 
but her stupendous dignity was unimpaired. She found her 
handkerchief ; then looked at Hoyland, and from Hoyland 
to the door. Finally, as he did not move, she sailed towards 
the bell, remarking that she did not think that anything 
more remained to be said. 

With a sharp effort Hoyland pulled himself together; 
took a couple of steps forward and faced her, forcing that 
smile which he had once known how to make so winning. 

‘T’m frightfully sorry. Lady Caroline ; I don’t know how 
to apologize. I had no business to speak like that, it’s 
unforgivable. But the truth is, I was taken aback ; we had 
always seemed such good friends, and now. You must re- 
alize that the boy’s hopelessly weak — ” 

“All the more chance for you, and if you’re not equal to 
it — But it’s not that, an’ you know it” — she faced him 
squarely. “You’ve corrupted him, Mr. Hoyland; by hook 
or crook that’s what you’ve done, an’ God forgive you for it.” 

“I don’t see how you can say that. A boy makes a fool 
of himself when he’s under the influence^of no one but his 
own father or mother, and do people say they’ve corrupted 
their son ? It’s in him, that’s» all.” 

“It’s not in Anthony, an’ no parents can ever influence 
their own child as you’ve influenced that boy. My husband 
saw it before I did — ^but all women are more or less fools 
about men. However, we both see it now, and it’s time it 
came to an end. We’ve never interfered with Miss Clayton 
before, but we mean to interfere now ; that is, unless you — ” 

“I fancy you’ll find Miss Clayton has her own opinion on 
this subject, as on every other!” broke in Hoyland loudly. 

“We shall see.” Lady Caroline had her hand upon the 
bell, and pulled it sharply ; it was quite evident that she did 
not intend to be drawn into any argument. 

“There is nothing more to be said,” she repeated, as the 
butler appeared in the doorway ,* and with a slight inclination 
of the huge head in its grotesque hat Hoyland found himself 
dismissed in a fashion against which there was no appeal. 

He had made a mess of things, as he always seemed to be 
doing nowadays. Lady Caroline had given him a chance of 
handing in his own resignation to Diana, of saving his dig- 


226 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


nity. She had even, out of the fairness of her mind, given 
him an opportunity to explain circumstances which she well 
knew were without extenuation. But now she had done 
with him, and she and her husband would bring all their in- 
fluence to bear upon his dismissal from Ox Lee. 

Strange to think that his only ally at this juncture would 
be his first enemy in that place. Mrs. Clayton would never 
dare to let him go; and seldom as she exerted her will, it 
was law. He was sure of this, and yet uneasy ; one had no 
actual basis to go upon in dealing with such people. 

He took a short cut from the house leading through the 
shrubberies to a cart-track across the fields. It was a twist- 
ing path bordered upon either side by high Portuguese laurels ; 
at one place broadening into a small bay with a rustic seat. 

Anthony Clayton's Aberdeen, MacTavish, was sniffing 
about the bushes which fronted this bay; and as Hoyland 
passed he saw that Anthony himself was standing there, 
talking to Constance Hervey, who was seated. 

The boy swung round as he heard his tutor's footsteps. 
They both nodded, and there was something amused and 
triumphant in their glances ; though the girl's eyes were hard 
with the resentment of a woman who realizes that she has 
been put on one side for another. 

She left Setons' the following week, and about the same 
time there was an announcement in the paper that Lord 
Yeanham was going abroad for the autumn. 

Curious to know how much his pupil might know or feel, 
Hoyland hazarded a speculation as to whether they had de- 
parted together. 

“Of course. That was it all the time!" His laugh, his 
glance at his tutor was full of insolence. “We — you and 
I — were never anything but decoy ducks, I can tell you that. 
The only difference between us is that I twigged her little 
game and you didn't." 

Hoyland was furious. It was true that he had been com- 
pletely taken in, that he had believed Miss Hervey to be 
devoted, desolated by his desertion. 

It was partly this sense of exasperation at being in the 
dark and out of things, partly the sort of anxiety resulting 
from his own interview with Lady Caroline — the talk with 
Diana and her mother which he knew to have followed it — 
that impelled Hoyland to force his company upon his pupil 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


227 


when he took himself off to Sheffield the following Saturday. 

There had been a long interval between these visits, during 
which young Clayton seemed to have found his amusement 
nearer home. He now raised no objection to his tutor’s 
company as he had done before; was sullenly indifferent. 
It appeared to Hoyland as though he were in two minds as 
to whether they should keep together ; whether he might not 
be glad of his company, or whether he should give him the 
slip. 

Hoyland had some shopping to do, and Anthony hung 
about with him for some time; even suggested dropping in 
for the latter half of a matinee. Then, quite suddenly, as 
it seemed, he nerved himself to some determination ; and 
with a muttered excuse of having his hair cut, slipped away. 

Here was the elder man’s chance. Any move which his 
pupil was willing to make in his company -held no possible 
value for him ; he was consumed with anxiety to know some- 
thing of what went on behind his back. 

He followed the boy easily enough; through a maze of 
mean streets, and into a mean house. Here he found an 
almost incredibly sordid entrance-hall and stairway ; while a 
slatternly landlady directed him up to an; untidy room, bear- 
ing unmistakable evidence of a woman’s occupation ; though 
there was no one in it save Anthony, who stood with his 
hands deep in his pockets, staring^moodily out of the window. 

There was an argument, something which might have 
flared into a fierce quarrel — for Hoyland was as angry as a 
man might be when another, borrowing his clothes, wears 
them amid scenes disgusting to his fastidiousness — had it not 
been that at the back of all Anthony’s' anger over his spying 
lay that relish with which one realizes something very spe- 
cial in the way of a coincidence of anti-climax. It appeared 
to Hoyland, indeed, that all the boy’s blustering, all his re- 
proaches, were a mere mockery, and he would have given 
anything to wait, as he had found him waiting, just to see 
who would appear upon the scenes. 

But there young Clayton took a line which beat him. He 
had come in search of a truant. Well, here was the truant, 
far from docile and yet willing to go with him. What more 
could he want ? 

As a matter of fact, he wanted a good deal more ; marked 
time by scolding, questioning. But at last, when no one 


228 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


came, and it was manifestly impossible for him to scour the 
house, he found himself obliged to give in, and lead off his 
pupil, a mockery of protest in his every movement. 

They had tea together. Anthony was more amiable than 
he had been for weeks, months, ever since Hoyland started 
with his tampering, indeed ; and he had an idea that, at the 
back of his mind, the boy was glad to be quit of whoever he 
had been awaiting in that room. 

An enigmatic room, too, all things considered ; poorly fur- 
nished, untidy, and yet so manifestly not the room of any 
ordinary creature of commerce. A room that was evidently 
used for both cooking and living in : for all the endless petty 
occupations which go to the preservation of life on the small- 
est possible means ; yet, in some inexplicable way, a lady’s 
room. 

And that was not all. Instinctively Hoyland had glanced 
round in search of those photographs which usually reveal so 
much of any unknown occupant of a strange house, and 
found but one; a curled snapshot of a group on what was 
evidently enough the loggia of a hotel at some Continental 
resort. Monte Carlo! — A curve of bay, a distant mountain 
brought it back to him ; he moved nearer and peered. 

It showed a huddled bunch of people; the faces were 
blurred, wrinkled and grimacing, with the sun full upon 
them. It was impossible to recognize any single individual, 
and yet in a sudden flash he knew them all, remembered 
exactly how they had stood, the silly jokes, the laughter. 

There was his mother, with one of her special admirers, 
himself. Rose and Maisie in a short white frock; ah, yes, 
Maisie was plain enough — he could see her long, slim legs 
in white shoes and stockings. She was half kneeling, bend- 
ing forward with outstretched hand — he remembered that, 
too — trying to induce a ridiculous bat-eared French bulldog, 
for which Mrs. Hoyland had shown a brief passion, to sit 
up and beg, show itself to the best advantage. 

How the devil ? Oh, yes, there were other people in the 
group; the photo might be there on their account. And 
yet— and yet— Well, how the devil could he or any of his 
friends be connected with Anthony Clayton’s unknown en- 
chantress, the Circe of this smoke-grimed and sordid manu- 
facturing town; surely, the utmost antithesis of such a 
group, such surroundings as those in which that laughing, 
well-dressed group was represented ? 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


229 


CHAPTER XV 

It was some weeks after this that young Clayton elected 
to remain out all night, returning by one of those trains 
which shunt into Millers Dale and Peak Forest stations to 
fetch the early morning’s milk. 

It had been a day of heavy, brooding oppression. The 
sense of exhilaration which had possessed Hoyland was still 
at a low ebb, fed by no fresh tide. Diana was no nearer to 
him, was, indeed, rising further above him, still serene in her 
clouded sky. He had not counted upon this, realized that 
with the spirit of youth might come a sense of unsureness, a 
lack of that perfect self-confidence which had acted as a sort 
of pneumatic wadding between himself and the rest of the 
world. It was Anthony who was sure now, brutally in- 
different. 

Apart from all this, an idea that the boy knew something 
regarding which he himself was still in the dark began to 
grow upon Hoyland. Young Clayton’s glance was arrogant, 
malicious, full of amusement; more than once the tutor 
found himself endeavoring to probe him in a roundabout 
way; cursed himself for the sort of diffidence, the efforts at 
conciliation, which he discovered in himself. 

He had never calculated upon this — ^that the cub, Anthony . 
Clayton, should have taken his cynical coolness and sureness 
with the rest of him ; that this pilfering of souls should have 
so oddly shifted the boot to the other foot. 

But whatever the boy’s triumph consisted in, he kept it to 
himself, hugged it as a mature man hug§ his secret pleasures ; 
with none of the boastful bruiting abroad of youth, that en- 
joys the telling more than the actual doing. Though it was 
clearly not only the doing which pleased Anthony ; there was 
evidently some strange and peculiar sense of triumph over 
his tutor in particular, setting that inscrutable smile upon his 
young face, giving it an expression of settled evil. 

It was Charles Hoyland who would have chattered had he 
dared. It became more and more difficult to keep things to 
himself ; he grew so voluble that he would draw himself to- 
gether with a sudden sense of horror, when he found Diana’s 
calmly puzzled gaze upon him— -humming, singing about the 
house. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

He heard Nanny describe him once: “Got ter rattlin’ like 
a dry pea in a tin ! The devil take ’im ! I mistrusted ’im 
when ’e useter be in them there black moods o’ ’isn, but I 
mistrust ’im a deal worser now.” 

The truth is, they all mistrusted him with the sure instincts 
of primitive people who mistrust any sort of change. The 
passage from childhood to youth, to manhood, to old age, 
to death — the days, the seasons; seed, flower, fruit — these 
are all a part of the orderly routine of nature. But to hear 
Hoyland humming, whistling, to see him walking briskly, 
swinging his stick ! There was somethihg “demned contrari- 
wise, outer natchur” ; the very dogs became, if possible, more 
distant. 

On the morning of the day upon which Anthony did not 
return home — that Mrs. Clayton should mistake the one for 
the other, and then, again, that the boy should stay out all 
night, those were the crowning proofs which he had put before 
himself — Hoyland came downstairs in tearing high spirits. 

Diana was in the hall, arranging some long sprays of bril- 
liant crimson-and-gold blackberry foliage in a tall earthen- 
ware vase ; standing sideways to the window, so that the sun- 
shine outside ran a thin nimbus of gold round her dark head, 
edged her profile. 

As he spoke she glanced up, turning so that her face was 
altogether in shadow, her eyes pools of darkness. 

His half jocular greeting broke off shortly; all of a sud- 
den, for the first time in his remembered life, he felt shame, 
that sort of shame which might have overcome a grotesque, 
gamboling faun beneath the grave gaze of some nymph. 

It was about at that moment the clear morning became 
overcast. Breakfast was eaten almost in silence. Anthony 
did not appear until a full hour after the meal was at an end. 
Here again the roles of pupil and preceptor were reversed. 
“All as ever ’e lamed ’im is idleness an’ sauce, breaking ’is 
mammy’s ’eart !” That was what Nanny said. 

Still there was nothing strange — for these days — in young 
Clayton’s dilatoriness, or in his mood when he did appear ; 
breakfasted, yawned over his books for a couple of hours, 
and then swaggered off, with no word as to where he was 
going, what he meant to do. It could have been only the 
day which upset Hoyland, or so he told himself ; the green- 
ish pall of sky, the heat, the stillness. That, or the sense of 


THE LITTLE SOUL 231 

something gathering; as a Greek tragedy gathers to its cli- 
max, far off though that may yet be. 

There was no remark made regarding Anthony’s absence 
from the midday dinner. At first Hoyland was indignant 
with the young cub for being late for meal after meal ; then, 
as he did not appear, concluded he had taken himself off to 
Sheffield. What the devil drew him to that confounded 
place? Why couldn’t he have the common decency to say 
where he was going, what he meant to do ? 

Mrs. Clayton did not speak; scarcely touched a mouthful 
of food. Every day she grew thinner, whiter, as though life 
were being drained out of her ; while Diana’s every th^ought 
and glance were for her alone. 

The meal over, Hoyland went out of doors; wandered 
about aimlessly for awhile; then suddenly turned and hur- 
ried home, scared. It seemed as though everybody, every- 
thing, looked at him with queer sidelong glances ; he had an 
odd feeling of being stripped. Hot as it was, he put a match 
to the piled logs in his grate ; he must have some reason for 
sitting somewhere, and it could not be by the window. 

He dropped asleep there and had an odd dream. He was 
out of his body — the real he, the personality, the soul, the 
spirit, the true ego, whatever you choose to call it — and alone 
on those bleak, rock-strewn moors where he had ridden with 
Diana. It seemed as though he had been enjoying himself 
in some strange, impish sort of way ; for he had the memory, 
even on waking, of hearing himself laugh with a high, shrill 
note. Then panic overtook him and he was seized with a 
wild desire to get back to his home, which was his own 
proper body, built in the odd semblance of a house, and yet 
a body, in that dream-fashion in which one and the same 
thing can have two distinct appearances. 

Here his heart was the door, and there was a knocker on 
it. He knocked and shouted and pushed ; but he could not 
stir it, and no' one answered, or opened, or looked from the 
two tightly shuttered windows which were the eyes, though 
he shrieked himself sick. 

At last it was forced upon him that the porter, of whom 
Mrs. Clayton had spoken, was gone; that there was no one 
left to answer or open ; and on that realization all there was 
left of him withered, shrank, dried to the powdery substance 
of rotten wood. 


232 THE LITTLE SOUL 

It was then that, looking out towards the wide-open stretch 
of country, which was no longer heath but desert, he saw a 
wind upon the horizon, sweeping up circles of sand ; gyrating 
towards him, growing ever nearer and nearer, until in a mad 
panic he endeavored to catch at himself, to hold himself to- 
gether, to preserve some sort of entirety. Again, what was 
it Mrs. Clayton had said ? A pinch of dust driven into the 
crack of some wall — trodden into the earth itself.’^ 

He shrieked as the first breath of the wind touched him, 
clutching at himself, feeling himself — all there was of him— 
as a child playing at the seaside feels the dry sand running 
through its fingers. And it was either that shriek, or a 
blinding flash of lightning which awoke him, showed him 
the familiar study, and Mrs. Clayton standing before him. 

He saw her open her mouth as though to speak; but at 
that moment the darkness fell again, and a heavy peal of 
thunder shook the house, echoed and re-echoed away among 
the hills. 

For a moment he thought that she had gone, or had never 
been there, was part of his dream. Then there was a glow 
of crimson light as she stooped and gathered the logs to- 
gether with the long-handled hook which lay upon the 
hearth. 

That was another of the strange things about this blind 
woman : her realization of darkness, the way she made light 
for others. He had known her come into a room, and, ex- 
claiming: “What, all in the dark!” find the matches, take 
the glass from the lamp and light it, raising the wick to ex- 
actly the right height. 

She turned and looked at Hoyland now; not merely as 
though she saw him, but as though she were reading him 
through ai]d through. 

“You don’t know where he is ?” 

“No, I don’t know.” Hoyland’s voice was sullen ; he was 
still oppressed by his dream, felt a strange sort of awkward^ 
ness, like a boy caught out in some misdeed. 

But Mrs. Clayton did not press the question, and as an- 
other flash of lightning whitened the room, she turned and 
slipped from the door without another word. 

He had his tea alone; Diana was busy in the dairy; the 
thunder had delayed the butter coming in the churn, and 
Nanny had taken her out a mug of tea and a slice of bread- 
and-butter — a, “piece,” as she called it. Mrs. Clayton was 


THE LITTLE SOUL 233 

upstairs ; Hoyland could catch the sound of her flute, a long- 
drawn blur of soft, melancholy notes. 

There was nothing out of the way in all this. But upon 
that particular evening it seemed to Hoyland as though he 
could not bear the loneliness : the sense of misery induced 
by the wind and rain which had followed upon the thunder. 

Late that evening Diana came into the study. Hoyland’s 
spirits rose at the sight of her. Her face was flushed with 
fatigue, her strong body drooped. She was infinitely desir- 
able, and she was his; of course, she was his, beyond any 
possible dispute. He was exhilarated, triumphant ; her 
very lassitude helped him by making her seem less unap- 
proachable than usual. 

“It’s a terrible night,” she said, and paused ; then : “Mr. 
Hoyland, have you any idea where Anthony has gone?” 

“Sheffield, I suppose.” 

“I suppose so; but I hoped — ” She broke off with a 
weary gesture, then began again : “The hillsides are running 
torrents; it’s absolutely black darkness. If he was trying 
to walk from the station now, if he was not quite himself, 
he’d never get home.” 

“Would you send the trap to meet the last train ?” 

“It’s too late ; it was in an hour ago. I thought of that, 
but no horse could face it. Listen!” 

She moved to the window and opened it. In a moment 
the lamp was out, the room in confusion, as the wind tore 
in, round it, and up the chimney. There was nothing to be 
seen outside. The darkness was like a wall pressing in upon 
them, the combined noise of wind and rain deafening. 

Together they shut the window, pressing themselves 
again^ the wind, and Diana re-lit the lamp; stooped to the 
hearth and raked together the scattered embers ; then turned 
and faced him. 

“Can you suggest anything?” 

“To send out men with lanterns — ” he began, then broke 
off, smiling as though the whole thing were a joke. 

After all, why all this fuss about that fool of a boy? 
They had each other, and a wonderful youth; life was full 
of endless possibilities. He put out one hand and laid it 
on hers, resting upon the edge of the mantelshelf. 

“What — ” he began; it was on his lips to say: “What 
does it all matter? You have me, and I love you !” 

The fatuity of it! How quickly and scornfully he would 


234 . 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


have realized it in another ! But with all his many advan- 
tages the vain man is strangely handicapped. 

Diana had jerked away her hand. He had never believed 
that she could look as she did. The glance she gave him 
was full of contempt. ‘T might have known!” she said, 
while he cursed his folly. She had actually appealed to him, 
and he had been fool enough to let slip the chance which 
offered itself in this display of unexpected weakness. 

An hour later he passed through the hall and saw that she 
and Nanny were fastening up a lamp in the porch, and 
helped them, their task completed, to shut the door against 
the wind. Then he went into the drawing-room and began 
picking out tunes upon the piano with his left hand — gay, 
lilting tunes, scraps of operettas. Likely enough, young 
Clayton would never come back; it would certainly kill his 
mother if that happened — and then — ^and then — how free 
they would be, Diana and he, untrammeled, with the whole 
world before them. 

It was extraordinary the life there was In that twisted left 
hand ; he even touched a few metallic notes with the other, 
as he took up the refrain of one of the latest and most 
popular Gaiety songs. 

Then he felt, rather than saw, that Diana was standing 
by him. 

"Tm going down to Peak Forest station to make inquiries 
■ — The wind’s dropped a little — it’s close upon twelve o’clock. 
If he comes while I am away — ” 

So, so ! She was turning to him, after all, was she ? He 
gave her a quick sidelong glance. She was wearing one of 
her brother’s overcoats and the little brown, punnet-like 
hat was tied down with a scarf knotted under her chin, 
giving her, in spite of her gravity, an adorably childish 
look. 

“How — are — you — agoing?” He was still busy with the 
refrain — a note or so between each word — ^but his spirits 
soared higher. 

“With Flo — in the trap. If Anthony does come, and 
Nanny needs any help — ” 

“Oh !” He got up, moved into the hall without another 
glance at her, and took down his big military coat and cap 
from a peg. The ridiculous child I Did she imagine for a 
moment he would let her go alone ? — ^that he did not realize 
that this was their hour? 


THE LITTLE SOUL 235 

As it happened, she did not protest, though he failed to 
grasp her reason. After all, if Anthony once reached the 
house, he would need no more help than Nanny could give 
hirn ; whereas if she found him fallen upon the way, it might 
be impossible to get him into the trap without assistance. 

Her every thought was for her brother ; she would have 
used anything or anybody in her need. 

They lit a lantern, and made their way to the stables; 
no one slept on the place, and they harnessed the mare 
between them. The air of the stable was warm and moist, 
cushioning them away from the still howling wind, from the 
rain which still fell, though with less violence, as though 
worsted in its fight with the wind, which, though it had 
lessened a little, still blew in great gusts like guns. 

The lamps were lighted and the mare backed into the trap. 
For a moment or so it seemed as though she would refuse 
to move ; then she sprang forward into the darkness. 

All the way to Peak Forest station the wind pressed side- 
ways upon them. There was a little breathing space where 
the trees grew thickest ; but here the noise among the boughs 
was almost deafening, like a wild sea tearing its way up a 
shingly beach. Flying twigs and splashes of mud struck 
their faces ; the air had grown cold, and Hoyland felt the 
skin of his face stretched tight, stiff and raw. The only 
warm portion of his body was that side of him which was 
pressed against Diana ; there alone was a feeling of strange 
restfulness, of perfect ease, of something like growth. 

Every now and then the wind ripped the blackness, shred- 
ding it so that it showed a frayed edge of pale gold : or, again, 
the lightning cut it. But for the most part there was noth- 
ing save the darkness, the wind and rain, walling them 
in. 

Once past the shelter of the trees the gale was terrific, 
the trap swayed. It was like being in an open boat upon 
a wide uncharted sea. 

They^ were long upon the way, for the mare took short, 
uncertain steps in the darkness. But for once Hoyland was 
oblivious to all discomfort, unaffected by the darkness which 
seemed like an illimitable space to either side of them, leav- 
ing them poised upon a knife-blade edge of earth. 

A sense of wild elation had taken possession of him. 
After all, he had always got the better of everything and 
everybody; just for a little he had felt himself treading upon 


236 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


such alien ground that his nerve had failed him. But now 
the world was his, with the girl at his side. This damned 
countryside, with its winds and its thunders, its horrible 
indifference — why had he ever been fool enough to fear, 
even in his secret, subconscious self, that they might beat 
him? 

What was it Mrs. Clayton had said? ‘‘They will have 
you at the end. ...” 

Fool ! when all the time he held the key to their mastery: 
the strength of two, that was all which was needed — Diana 
and he. 

Peak Forest station was in darkness. They banged and 
rattled at the stationmaster’s door, but even when they did 
succeed in rousing him he could tell them nothing : “Wakin’ 
a man out o’ ’is sleep fur the loikes o’ that!” How could 
he be expected to notice, to remember the face of every 
arrival by the crowded last train? “An’ on a night loike 
this’n, too!” 

Hoyland was triumphant, and yet punctilious; cunning; 
more than a little mad, as every man must be when he dares 
to tempt fate by triumph. It pleased him to make an 
elaborate comedy of this pretense of finding Anthony; as 
though he said to his companion: “See, now, the way in 
which I leave no single stone unturned.” 

He insisted upon knocking up the landlord of the inn 
nearest the station; and though Diana sat stiffening in the 
trap, hating the exposure of his question, she dared not 
protest ; they must do what they, could. 

At “The Silent Woman” the whole performance was re- 
peated again ; and here Hoyland’s solicitude was more dam- 
ning than the rankest abuse of the missing lad. 

Then a new idea came to him. He worked upon her fears 
that, overcome by drink or fatigue, her brother might be 
found, dropped by the wayside; and more than once she 
drew rein at Hoyland’s suggestion, so that he might investi- 
gate some mass of broken wall or fallen bough. The dark- 
ness was less intense than it had been ; there were patches 
of intenser blackness which left easy room for such doubts, 
and Diana, consumed with anxiety, was an easy prey. 

All this gave Hoyland a sharp sense of delight. He had 
tormented women before, but he had never realized the joy 
of tormenting the creature he loved. There was a real 
sensual pleasure in feeling her shoulder stiffen, shuddering, 


THE LITTLE SOUL 237 

against his own as he laid a hand upon her wrist. ‘‘Wait — 
one moment ! It may be — I fancy I see — ” 

He was very slow clambering out of the trap; but even 
then she remembered his maimed hands, refrained from 
hurrying him. 

When they got back, the hall door at Ox Lee was wide 
open, and Nanny stood in the aperture. The light at the 
back of her, the glittering wall of rain in front gave her 
stiff figure the flat effect of an ancient and grotesque piece 
of stained glass. Her gesture, as the horse and trap leapt in 
upon her from out of the darkness, was all of a piece, her 
arm jerking sharply upward from the elbow, palm outward. 

But for all its stiffness, the gesture was so plain in its 
significance that Diana did not even draw rein, drove straight 
on to the stable. 

She could hardly stand as she climbed down from the 
trap; but Hoyland would not put out a hand to her — not 
yet. 

Standing either side of the mare, they unbuckled the 
harness without a word. The wind had dropped, the rain 
fell straightly; there was no other sound. 

Hoyland held the cart while Diana led the mare into the 
stable. She had taken one of the lamps, and when he fol- 
lowed her, he found that she had stuck it in a socket on the 
side of the loose-box. 

She finished taking off the harness, and hung it over the 
partition. He was in the box beside her; their own wet 
bodies, the mare’s warm, wet sides, hung them round in 
mist. Diana’s face was deathly-white beneath her brown 
hat, all dark and sagged with rain; her eyes were heavy; 
the lamp on the wall behind her edged her head and shoul- 
ders with hazy gold. She moved her shoulders wearily, 
as she placed the last piece of heavy harness in place; her 
arms dropped straight at either side, as though she were 
utterly done. 

“He’s not come back,” she said. Hoyland waited, smil- 
ing a little, and saw her moisten her lip with her tongue. 
Her whole face stiffened as though she were nerving herself 
to some special effort: that sort of effort which it always 
cost her to speak of abstract things; above all, anything 
that had to do with her own personal emotions, feelings, 
fears. 

“If Anthony would come back— oh, I don’t mean just 


238 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


come home — not himself at all, another person! If he is 
lost among the dales, that’s a lesser loss, and you know it — 
You, only you — ” 

She hesitated, gazing at him intently, as though to force 
his knowledge, his help; then, as he was still silent, still 
slightly smiling, broke out with an abandonment of passion 
utterly unlike herself. 

“Oh, you know we hate you, and yet daren’t let you go! 
You know all that — and yet — ^well, it’s come to this: I’d 
give, do, anything, anything, to- have him back as he used 
to be!” 

“Anything?” Hoyland had moved in front of her, 
preyed in the narrow space between the mare’s reeking 
side and the partition of the loose-box. He had both hands 
upon her shoulders, was looking down into her eyes, and as 
he repeated the question, “Anything?” he saw her nod 
stiffly; caught her to him; then pressed her back against 
the woodwork, his lips to hers. 

As they crossed the yard to the house, the sky, still torn 
with clouds, had partially cleared, and a reddish moon was 
floating above them. Hoyland placed one hand under the 
girl’s arm to guide her, for she walked as though half-blind. 
He felt her tremble, and was filled with magnanimity. He 
would marry her, be kind to her — everything very proper 
and above-board. If ever the young cub did come back, he 
would see to it that, in future, he behaved himself. 

He took off the girl’s rain-heavy coat at the door of the hall, 
untied the scarf from under her chin, smiling, proprietary: 
“You must have something hot to drink, go straight to bed.” 

He hung up his own coat, and turned towards the fire. 
“Ah, there’s the kettle! Nanny’s — ” 

He broke off as he realized that Mrs. Clayton was sitting 
very upright in front of the blazing logs. 

In the first moment he expected some sort of a scene. 
But he determined that he would not speak first, and there 
was a long silence, for some reason weighted with feeling, 
meaning. Then, as she rose to her feet, lifted her head 
in that strange, staglike way she had, as though scenting 
something — ^but no, it was not like that now, more like a 
pointer, rigid at attention — he realized that there was relief, 
almost triumph, and yet a sort of horror in her expression. 

“Again!” she said; “just exactly the same as on that 
first night. But I’m not frightened this time.” Her face 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


239 


had that sort of stiffness that one may see in a child, brav- 
ing out some old terror. “That was the beginning — this 
is the end. Why did I ever doubt? How could I doubt? 
Diana, shut the door ; we can go upstairs, and to rest.” 

She made no reference to, no inquiry for, her son. Hoy- 
land’s puzzled eyes followed her as she moved up the stairs. 
“Doesn’t she know he’s not in? Does she think — •” he be- 
gan doubtfully. 

There was a moment’s pause ; then Diana, who had bent 
over the heavy bolts of the door, raised herself and looked 
at him. Her gaze was direct, but, all the same, he realized 
that she scarcely saw him, that her whole mind was bent 
upon some point in her mother’s words. They were like 
that, these Claytons, pretending attention, really engrossed 
in the windings of each other’s minds. 

“Oh, yes, she knows — she always knows when he’s out 
of the house! But she’s not disturbed; in some way she’s 
relieved. I wonder . . .” She hesitated, pondering; then 
her glance became more personal. 

“But — oh, now I do see what she meant — ^partly. But 
still, why—?” 

“Why?” 

“Well, in a way, it is the same; there’s mud on your face, 
and a scratch, a little spurt of blood. But, still — ” She 
broke off, as though the intensity of her thoughts had taken 
her beyond speech, and after one long glance, turned towards 
the stairway, infinitely far removed from the woman he had 
held in his arms, kissed, not ten minutes earlier. 

Left to himself, Hoyland felt that it was impossible to go 
to bed; he was like an author at the first performance of 
his own play, bound to see the thing out to the very end. 
The only pity was that it did not really end now ; must drag 
on and on, like one of those interminable Chinese dramas; 
for, of course, Anthony did come back, as those sort of 
people always do. 

Out of a kind of perversity, having changed his wet things, 
Hoyland elected to spend his night by the hall-fire. Diana 
might join him there. In his own mind he knew that she 
would do nothing of the kind, and yet there was a sort of 
pleasure in thus blocking the best post of observation. 

Wherever she spent her vigil, however, she caught sight 
of her brother before he did, was at the door to meet him, 
when he did appear close upon seven o’clock. 


240 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Hoyland heard her speak, but not what she said; then 
the boy’s savage retort : “For God’s sake leave a chap alone, 
can’t you ?” 

Up in his room, bathed and changed, he looked at his own 
face in the glass, consciously, for the first time since he got 
back to the house, when he had changed his wet things, 
wiped the mud from his face with a rough damp towel. Oh, 
so this was what the mad fool had been yapping about, was 
it? He had felt one special smart when a flying lump of 
mud hit his wet cheek; then forgotten about it, his whole 
face sore and stiff with the beat of wind and rain ; but there, 
once again, was much the same cut in much the same place 
as upon that first day. It seemed that this confounded coun- 
try was determined to set some sort of a trade-mark upon 
him. 

He sponged the cut — there must have been a splinter of 
flint in the mud, and applied a scrap of black plaster ; larger 
than last time, for the wound, still ridiculously trivial, was 
deeper, and in some way more definite. 

For the life of him Hoyland could not have said why, but 
it reminded him of a pointed finger. 

For a moment or so his own face, heavy, whiter than 
usual, gazed at him somberly from out of the glass, with that 
strange antagonism which one may sometimes find in one’s 
own reflection. 

What was there in this insignificant accident to make that 
crazed fool so elated, so desperately elated, and yet in some 
way horrified — seeing too dreadfully far with those blind 
eyes of hers ? 

He jerked himself aside from the glass with an angry 
laugh. Of course, all mad people were extra mad at the 
very thought of a coincidence. All the same — well, he 
wished it had not happened the very evening when every- 
thing seemed so perfectly within his grasp. “The gods 
are jealous!” Where was it that he had heard those 
words ? 

After all, what did it matter? He had mastered fate, 
beaten the lot of them with their omens and elements. He 
had Diana’s word: if she attempted to find any reason for 
going back on it, he could play with Anthony as easily as a 
man may slip his hand in and out of a glove. Even that 
lingering fear of those old Sotteville days was scotched; 
he had found the panacea for that also. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


241 


After all, it was the allurements of Manchester, not Shef- 
field, which had been responsible for Anthony Clayton’s 
absence; for a couple of days later he whisked the half of 
a return-ticket, which he must have forgotten to give up, 
out of his pocket with his handkerchief. 

Why had he stopped going to Sheffield? Hoyland was 
puzzled, and despite his sense of triumph, a little uneasy. 
He did not like things that he could not understand, and his 
memory was still teased by that room where he had found 
his pupil, the photograph stuck into the frame of the mirror. 

The boy stayed at home now ; was more docile, more like 
a rather dulled replica of his old self ; and Diana, watching 
them both, was faithful to her agreement. There was really 
nothing to fear, and yet he feared. 

To add to his trouble, he was not feeling well. He must 
have taken cold that night of the storm, for his neck was 
stiff, and the sense of rigor spread to his jaw. He felt 
himself chilly and reluctant to move away from the study 
fire. 

All the same, his thoughts clung to Diana ; he wanted to 
be with her ; had a feeling as though he were safe from some 
impending horror in her company, and in that alone ; and he 
would drag himself out to seek her, shivering in the dank 
air. 

It must have been ten days later that he met old Daniel 
Haele in the rickyard, inquired for his mistress, and then, 
hearing that she had gone to some outlying field, turned 
and dragged himself back to the house, with a feeling as 
though the distance were too immense even to think of. 

Speaking to the shepherd, he felt his head give a sharp 
backward jerk, and straightened himself angrily, scowling at 
the old man. 

As he moved away, Reuben, coming out of the stable, 
joined his father, and the two men stood looking after him 
with slow, ruminating glances. 

“Looks danged queer, ter my mind, that ’e do !” remarked 
Reuben at last; “a-grinnin’ and jerkin’ for all the world 
loike a chap at a fair.” 

“ 'Ragin’ waves o’ the sea foamin’ at their own shame' 
— ^that’s what Book do say ; that’s the loikes o’ ’im. ‘Wan- 
derin’ stars ter ’oom is reserved the blackness o’ night for 
ever.’ ’E’s a bad lot, that ’un, ’e is ; an’ I ain’t not been a 
shep’erd ower fifty years and dwarn’t know a bad ’un the 


242 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


first toime as ever I do clap eyes on ’im. Why, the very 
beastesses do fight shy o’ ’im.” 

“There ’e do be again,” exclaimed Reuben, and, rightly 
enough, for half-way back to the house Hoyland once more 
felt his head give that odd jerk upon his stiffened neck. He 
must have got a touch of fever, he thought ; his nerves were 
going to pieces — that damned war ! 

At tea-time Diana noticed his stiffness. “You must get 
Nanny to iron your neck for you,” she said. , 

But Nanny must have refused her good offices, for Diana 
herself appeared in the study later on, with the hot iron and 
sheet of brown paper, which rustics consider an infallible 
remedy, and ironed the back of his neck as carefully as she 
would have ironed anything else. 

But she was smiling as she finished; of course, it was 
ridiculous, but, all the same, comforting. “Now, I think 
if you’d go to bed, and have some hot bread-and-milk in- 
stead of that — ” She eyed the untouched supper-tray. 

“I can’t eat anything hard, my jaws are so confoundedly 
stiff,” complained Hoyland. He was bent nearly double 
over the fire ; his face was flushed, his eyes, usually so veiled, 
bright like those of a child upon the point of tears. 

“Diana — I feel awful — awful!” He put out one hand, 
but she moved away from it. 

“I daresay you’ll be better in the morning,” she said, and 
at this actual te^rs did come into Hoyland’s eyes. He 
wanted to lay his head against her shoulder, more than he 
had ever wanted anything in life before; but she was so 
damnably hard I He was not sure that he would ever really 
care to marry her, bother about her again — once he was well. 


t 


PART IV 



. ' i 


i 






CHAPTER I 


Nothing can well be more lonely than the life of a young 
girl in a large town, where she finds herself with no old 
acquaintances. A man may pick up friends of both sexes, 
here, there, everywhere ; winnow out some true intimates 
from among them. A girl who is by nature chaste, reserved, 
must wrap herself round, fence herself off with an air of 
indifferent coldness, be chary of her smiles, her interest. 
With some this attitude is retained by conscious endeavor ; 
with others, it is as instinctive as the shrinking movement of 
a sensitive plant. These are timid, mistrustful of all inti- 
macy, even with one of their own sex. It is almost more 
than they can bear to have so much as a finger laid upon 
their person, their beliefs, thoughts. They hug themselves 
away and apart from humanity as a bird from the snow; 
are never truly happy or at ease save when they are alone. 

Picture a nature like this condemned to live for ever in the 
public eye ; at the mercy of all the petty exaction of some 
dominating and selfish elder, of constant and scornful com- 
ment ; sharing everything, even the bedroom — and that alone 
bites deep — with another; never certain of a moment’s 
privacy; and you may realize what life had been to Rose 
Hoyland, understand something of that extraordinary sense 
of relief — which overcame all difficulties and privations — at 
the mere fact of being alone, at liberty, possessing herself. 

She was devoid of imagination, of any trace of that bril- 
liance which irradiated from her younger sister. But she 
had brains,, determination of a slow, persistent sort, great 
accuracy, and a very fair knowledge of other languages 
than her own ; a semi-business knowledge, for she was th 2 
only one of her family who had attempted anything like a 
system of housekeeping and accounts; had clung to it like 
some women cling to religion, others to corsets — as an or- 
dered mainstay of life. 

The money which accrued from the sale of her mother’s 
jewelry and furs she used in sending Maisie to a good 
school, where she hoped to be able to keep her for at least a 

245 


246 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


year; while she herself managed to get a war-time appoint- 
ment as foreign correspondent clerk in Sheffield, with a sal- 
ary upon which she could just contrive to exist; superimpos- 
ing the added loneliness of a bed-sitting-room life upon that 
other loneliness of unknown people, an unknown town. 

Thus it was that she returned from her work each evening 
to one small room where she spent the remainder of the day ; 
ate her evening meal, slept, rose and breakfasted, as com- 
pletely solitary as any beast in its lair. When her landlady 
came up with anything, she knocked at the door, opened it a 
crack and handed it in; a dour woman, who scarcely ever 
spoke to Rose, though she was garrulous enough, in a com- 
plaining way, with her neighbor over the fence. 

Around this inner wrapping of one small room the great, 
sprawling, ugly town, with its network of tram-lines, its 
chimneys, its smoke, its roar and hum and rattle, wrapped 
her like the multiple folds of a cocoon. She had visited most 
of the beautiful cities in Europe, moved at ease — outward- 
seeming ease — through lofty and gracious rooms, whereas she 
could now scarcely stir without knocking over something or 
other ; but she had never, in her entire life, been so happy. 
She had no longing for the open, for wider liberty, for move- 
ment ; all she cared for was to be alone, to be let alone. 

A certain small ambition to excel at her work sprang to 
life within her. Though she was at the office from nine to 
six — she who had never before done any definite work — 
she had never known what it was to have so much unbroken 
leisure ; the hours which stretched out before her upon her 
return each evening seemed to fill her lungs, like mountain 
air, open spaces. 

She was no longer obliged to take a hand at bridge, which 
she hated and in which people hated her; to entertain those 
admirers whom her mother did not need for the moment; 
to sit under the hands of dressmakers, hairdressers, mani- 
curists ; to read aloud, to shop, to take out the dog ; to at- 
tend upon headaches with aspirin and eau-de-cologne; to 
lie politely — for other people — and to order ; to be dragged 
through a long succession of amusements which had long 
ceased to amuse; to be set in the shop-window of life — 
with no one offering to buy — and then poked away out of 
sight with other stale stock. 

She began to learn shorthand, to add the study of Spanish 
to the French and Italian which she had always seemed to 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


247 


know. She had never before been able to really study any- 
thing, and it is difficult to overestimate the delight which 
it gave her. Add to all this the fact that she found herself 
appreciated, praised, for the first time in her life, given 
authority over others, a good deal looked up to on account 
of her attainments, and you will realize a little of the sober 
pleasure which life began to hold for her. 

“Oh, Rose is so stupid ! It’s no good explaining anything 
to Rose! Mon Dieu! was there ever any one cursed with 
such a dull lump of a daughter?” And even from Maisie: 
“Rose is never up to anything; there’s no fun to be got out 
of that stupid old Rose I” 

That was what it had been. And now there was the half- 
envious admiration of flappers : “Fancy knowing foreign 
languages like that. Miss Hoyland I I never I Just as 
though they were your own — natural as natural!” The 
more considered praise of the elder male clerks : “We know 
that we can always depend upon you. Miss Hoyland.” 

It was nothing to Rose that other girls found presents of 
sweets and flowers upon their desks; that they were taken 
out to theaters, suppers, “given the glad eye” ; found life a 
perpetual crescendo of giggles, all sparkle and fizz and scent, 
like third-rate champagne. 

Though she had never actually participated in such things 
upon her own account, she had seen them — seen them — 
seen them — passing and repassing in endless reiteration, and 
far worse than they were now, with the excuse of nature, 
hot youth ; amplified by a more complete lack of all con- 
straint — going on, and on, and on, until she was sick of the 
very words, “pleasure,” “admirers,” “love”; seen them all, 
veneered over by a pretense of refinement which could do 
nothing to balance that nausea which youth feels at any- 
thing like a foolish or dissolute middle-age. 

No ; she did not want to be loved, to be amused ; she 
wanted to be let alone, and she was alone. The only dis- 
turbing element was the girl who came twice a week for an 
hour, to teach her Spanish — and that added expense meant 
walking each day either to or from work. But Rose threw 
wider the windows every evening, directly she had gone, with 
her scent of powder, her emotions, love, despair ; calculations 
and exhilarations, worldliness. She wanted love, passion, 
but she also wanted a comfortable home and a steady, 
well-to-do husband; she never thought of combining the 


248 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


two: the exact amount of give-and-take necessary for each 
was plainly defined in her shrewd, ignorant mind. Life, 
however, getting what one wanted, was difficult under the 
circumstances. 

“Ah, but is it not ter-rible, Mees, to be poor when one is 
young, wants to live, must live before it is too late? For 
what is life worth to the old and ugly? Men, perhaps, yes ; 
but women — pouf She snapped her fingers iii contempt. 
“To ’ave to wear so ugly clothes that nobody not look at 
you ; your youth all going and your blood frozen out of you 
in this so white and tight-lipped England. Zee country — 
oh, zee country so chilly, so gray — ^but zee men — Christ! 
only to see zee men! A gentleman of my own country 
is more warmer behind iron bars — ah, but you can burn 
your fingers there — than your Een-glish men with their arms 
around you. I zee the girls and the men in the parks, sittin* 
oh so ! — and lying on zee grass. An’ I say the worst must 
’appen. But ’appen — ’appen ! — pouf I Nothing not ’appens. 
In my country, I tell you — oh, I tell you — !” She nodded 
fiercely, half closing her eyes, protruding her red lower lip. 

“An’ as for kiss! Kiss — they call it kiss! Mother of 
God ! but they kiss their mistresses as they was their grand- 
mothers. Is it not so, Mees ’Oyland?” Her eyes gleamed 
with malice and amusement, for trust one woman to know 
when another is unkissed, unsought. 

One evening she came in laughing. “An Eenglish mees, 
in a porch outside ’er door, I ’card ’er — ‘ ’Old me tight-er, 
Jeem !’ ” she mimicked, biting her under-lip to one side, 
jerking back her head, throwing out her hands in scorn. 
“ ‘ ’Old me tighter, Jeem !’ Mother of ’Eaven, to think of 
that !” 

Rose did not think, did not care; the Spanish girl was 
common; had she not be(5n common she would not have 
imparted her own language for a shilling an hour. But 
Rose Hoyland was a born virgin ; if she had married, had 
children, she would have still kept the tight-enfolded, timid, 
grudging, innermost core of herself untouched. 

And yet she was not altogether unmoved by nature. 
Walking home through the public gardens one evening in 
early April, mild as May — one of those evenings when, even 
in the dirtiest of cities the air clears itself to the translucency 
of a pink pearl beneath a veiled immensity — old Khayyam’s 


THE ^LITTLE SOUL 249 

‘‘upturned bowl” — of palest gray, some germ of spring must 
have found a transitory resting-place in her blood. 

The almond-trees were in flower; a few pale daffodils 
shone in sheltered corners, drinking the rare sun. Already 
there was a hum of bees amid the ribes ; while thrushes and 
blackbirds sang as though for ever assured of spring. 

There had been any number of young couples sitting 
beneath the chestnut- trees, with their little fanlike spurts of 
green; but Rose Hoyland had not lingered, scarcely looked 
around her. They had kept her late at the office, and her 
mind was intent upon her evening work ; tea and a 
curtailed hour at shorthand, then her Spanish lesson. Next 
week she was going to commercial classes ; this girl was all 
light chatter, and she was getting beyond her. 

Her one thought was to get to work. Her tea, supposedly 
a solid meal, to save the trouble of supper — thin slices of 
cold sausage, bread and margarine — was disposed of as 
quickly as possible, the table cleared. Then in the midst 
of getting together her books and writing materials. Rose was 
overcome by a sudden nostalgia, a feeling that it was all no 
good, led to nothing — at least, nothing which really mattered. 

Her heart ached, her limbs were heavy. She moved to the 
window, flung it wide open, and stood with her forehead 
leaning against the upper half. Tears ran down her face, 
though she did not sob, had no sensation of weeping; could 
not have said why they fell, what ailed her. She had been 
so happy, and now she was unhappy for no apparent reason. 

A man came down the narrow gray street, in which every 
single house was alike — even to the lace curtains at the shal- 
low bay windows of the ground-floor — pushing a barrow full 
of daffodils, narcissus, mimosa, poppy-anemones. Her mind 
went back to Biarritz, Pau, Monte Carlo. She had not been 
happy there; she did not want to go back; it was not that 
which she wanted. She did not know what she wanted, only 
that the memory of other days augmented her sorrow. 
She was not happy then, and she was not happy now. Was 
she always to be, in some odd way, defrauded, left out? 
She could not bear it — no, she could not bear it. 

The shorthand hour — for which she had hurried home 
through the gardens, scarcely sparing them so much as a 
thought — slipped by unnoticed; and she was still standing 
at her window when the Spanish girl arrived, wearing a new 


250 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

hat, flushed and breathless, with little beads of moisture upon 
the faint mustache which followed the line of her upper lip. 

“Ah, it is zee spring at last,” she said. “It is not so bad, 
after all, it is not so b^ad, this England of yours, Mees ’Oy- 
land. 'Ot — ’ot — ^but then I ’ave ’urried.” 

At her breast she wore a bunch of cream narcissus, the 
perfume of which made Rose feel faint as she bent over her, 
following the line of translation with a long pencil. 

Every moment or so she glanced at the clock, broke into 
the lesson with little humming airs and trills. 

“I mustn’t be late — ^it is verri, verri par-ticular.” When 
her eyes were not on the clock, they were on the mirror; 
she was pulling out the little curls upon her forehead, settling 
the lace frill and flowers upon her pigeon-breast. “Perhaps 
Mees ’Oyland will be so verri good as to make the lesson — 
five — ^ten — minutes shorter this time. It could be — ^what is 
it you call it ? — ^given back on the Thursday.” 

“I shan’t need you again,” said Rose. *T will pay you 
for the next lesson, but you need not come.” 

The Spanish girl flared up at this. “Why, and why? 
Because I ask to leave a little more early for this once? — 
because I have warm blood in my veins, and not water? — 
because it is spring, because I have a friend to meet me — 
to be’ave pretty to me? That’s good, verri good, that is! 
‘You need not come.* Ah, well, verri well; but you must 
pay me, all the same, and I ’ave friends *oo — ” 

“It’s not that at all,” said Rose; “but I think I am 
working too hard, doing too much. I am very tired. Of 
course, I will pay you — I said I would.” 

“Ah, well, it is nothing, nothing whatever to me,” re- 
marked the preceptress, slightly mollified. “A little less 
money, and more liberty, more love, more of ever)rthing else 
that makes life — ” She broke off, glancing at Rose, her 
expression softened. “It is true; you are very pale, Mees. 
You should go out and take the air, look around you. You 
are only young once, and there is no knowing what will 
’appen. I myself, I sat in the gardens. I did not look at 
any one; I did not even smile. We Spanish ladies, we 
know ’ow to be’ave; but I found a friend. Next Sunday 
we go out for the whole day ; *ee take a little carriage on 
purpose, an’ drive me ; we ’ave dinner out. Already he say 
he never not see such a girl. What is the good of being 
yeung if nobody not loves you? That’s what I say. Yes, 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


251 


yes, you work too ’ard. Go out into the gardens, where all 
the birds are singing, an’ ’oo knows what may ’appen ?” 

The lesson, such as it was, was soon over. While the 
signorita was touching up her lips at the glass, Rose opened 
a drawer, and taking out a pair of green silk stockings, 
which had belonged to her mother, gave them to her; was 
embraced in return, a warm embrace redolent of powder, 
scent and the heavy perfume of narcissus. 

Next day the sense of failure, of something lacking, had 
vanished clean away. All her interest was in her work, 
though her limbs still ached as though she had been through 
a fever. Returning home that evening, it was cold and 
rainy; premature nests were being blown out of the half- 
leafless trees; the almond-blossom scattered to the ground. 
The day before she had thought that she would linger on the 
way, perhaps sit for a while if she could only find a secluded 
spot ; but now her one idea was to get back to her own room, 
and make up for lost time. 

But when she did reach home, wet and cold, a surprise 
awaited her. The landlady, who opened the door, informed 
her that there was a young lady waiting for her upstairs. 
“Says as ’ow she’s your sister,” she added. And then: 
“I can’t ’ave all this stuff littering up ’ere; no room for 
nothing.” 

The little hall was, indeed, full of familiar luggage, still 
half covered with Continental labels, and Rose’s heart sank. 
It must be Maisie. What had happened ? A sense of deadly 
depression swept over her. She had been discontented the 
day before, full of all sorts of vague desires ; but now nothing 
seemed to matter save her right to quiet study, her own life, 
her own room, which had grown to seem like a second and 
less sensitive body for her shrinking soul to nest in. 

Maisie was standing by the window. She moved towards 
her sister and offered her cheek. “Hulloa, Rose !” 

“Maisie ! What has happened ? What’s brought you here ?” 

“You don’t seem overjoyed to see me.” 

“Of course. I’m glad to see you ; but you ought to be at 
school. I heard nothing of holidays. Is there illness? 
What?” 

“My dear, there isn’t anything, only — Well, I got into 
a row.” The girl’s manner was half-sulky, half-defiant. 
“The silliest thing — the silliest ass of a subaltern, a few notes 
over the wall. I wouldn’t have looked at him if I hadn’t 


252 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


been so kept in — sick of those perpetual women — ^their ever- 
lasting ‘Oh, Maisie!* Stupid girls with their silly mistresses. 
‘Such darlings!’ ‘Dear Miss Earnshaw, dear Miss Craw- 
shay’ — 2L thing with eyes like a cow — ^‘Isn’t she too sweet!’ 
And sucking up to that old Courland beast like anything. 
Ugh ! Well, anyhow, they were going to write to you, ask 
you to take me away ; but I didn’t mean to wait for that, so 
I came off on my own. But I say. Rose, what a poky little 
room! What an awful hole of a town! And that old 
horror downstairs said there was no bath-room, when I 
wanted to wash my hands. Is this the only place you have ? 
Where do you get your meals and all ?” 

“There’s nowhere else. I have only one room.’' Rose sat 
down by the table and leant one elbow upon it, her shoulders 
drooping heavily. She felt weighed down, crushed. 

“Perhaps if I write to Miss Courland she’ll take you back ; 
there is still another month of term. But even then there 
would be your fare.” 

“Catch me going back to that hole ! I’ll nurse soldiers, or 
something like that. I love those white veils, like you used 
to wear.*' She moved to the glass, and taking out her hand- 
kerchief, stretched it across her iDrows. “It’s awfully be- 
coming, and there are always orderlies and people to do 
the dirty work.” 

“How did you get the money to come up here?” 

“I sold my watch.” 

“Oh, Maisie! The last present Mamma gave to you!” 

“‘Oh, Maisie! Oh, Maisie!’ What a humbug you are, 
Rose ! I’d a better time of it than you did, because she liked 
to show me off; but what’s the good of pretending? She 
was just our mother because she married our father — rela- 
tion by marriage ; that’s what I call it. She did not care two- 
pence, not twopence for us, ourselves. Charlie was the only 
one who ever got anything out of her, and that only because 
his^ selfishness flattened down hers. Come to that, I don’t 
believe that anybody ever does care for any one else, unless 
they’re in love — and that doesn’t last.” 

She had taken off her hat, was busy at the mirror, brush- 
ing out her hair and twisting it up again. “I only put it 
up to-day, but I like it. I shall keep it like this. I’m really 
grown up; some girls are married when they’re my age. 
You don’t care for any one, either, any more than mamma, 
Rose — ^not really care. I don’t even believe you could be 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


253 


in love. Now with me — I could be most frightfully in love; 
IVe got that much to me, and I would make the best of it 
while it lasted, trust me 

She had taken a powder-puff out of her little bag, and was 
powdering her nose ; her eyes were dancing. It was a horrid 
town, a horrid, poky little room ; but, after all, it was a sort 
of adventure. Anything — anything might happen. 

She had grown to her full height, a good five- foot-eight, 
showing a clear sweep of unusual length from waist to knee. 
She was still girlishly thin, but there was no sign of an angle ; 
her carnation-and-white skin was clearer than ever, her crisp 
dark hair shot with threads of red and gold; her greenish 
eyes danced and sparkled. There was never any girl more 
full of life than Maisie Hoyland, excepting when enveloped 
in one of those periodical fits of sulks which wiped her out 
like a long, ugly illness. 

‘T’m frantically hungry, and IVe had no tea !” 

‘T’ll make it now.” Rose got up from her chair slowly, 
moving as if she were an old woman, though she could be 
brisk enough when her younger sister was not there to draw 
the life out of her. She took off her hat and smoothed down 
her hair with one hand, without looking in the glass, took 
the kettle to a tap outside the door and filled it; then lit 
the paraffin stove and put it on to boil while she set the 
table. 

She had brought back one egg with her, and Maisie ate 
it. “Aren’t you going to have one?” she inquired; but 
when her sister answered in the negative she took no further 
notice, and went on with her own tea, showing a schoolgirl’s 
appetite for bread and margarine, though she complained 
and grimaced at “the stuff.” 

Rose was thinking. One egg at fourpence-half penny, that 
was all very well. But ninepence was a different matter; 
and it would be like this through everything. How could 
she do it? She must ask Mrs. Raikes about the price of 
the little slip of a room which adjoined her own; there was 
a trestle bed there ; that and a chair — no room for anything 
else. It ought not to cost a great deal — three or four shil- 
lings a week ; but where was even that much to come from? 

All her thoughts seemed to be concerned with these petty 
calculations ; but at the back of them lay a far deeper sense 
of concern and resentment. Her two months of self-expres- 
sion had given her just enough imagination for despair, but 


254 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


not enough for hope. In the old clays she had neither de- 
spaired nor hoped ; had just gone on. 

Her own life was at an end : at an end for ever. It seemed 
as though Maisie was like the sun, which is believed to put 
out the fire. 

Directly tea was over, the younger girl suggested a cinema. 
‘‘Fve money enough over from my fare. Don’t let’s be 
poked in here all the evening ; I want to go out and see some- 
thing ; I want to feel free. Likely enough it will be a rotten 
show, but it will be something; better than nothing.” 

Rose knew that she ought to insist upon her saving her 
money; but really it did not matter — nothing mattered — 
and for once she agreed with Maisie. She could not have 
borne to be shut up in that little room, which had seemed so 
big for one, and was now so overcrowded; not only with 
Maisie herself, and Maisie’s belongings, but with the exuber- 
ant air of her. 

They interviewed Mrs. Raikes about the room; it was 
three-and-sixpence a week — not so bad, after all; but the 
washing of the sheets extra. Maisie was laughing as they 
went out of the house together — it all seemed so comical — 
while Mrs. Raikes looked sourly after them. She didn’t 
want any of “that loud lot in her house.” Maisie caught at 
Rose’s arm and pinched it. “Poor old Rose, of course it’s 
an awful nuisance for you to have me planting myself down 
on you like this. But I’ll be awfully good, I can tell you. 
I’ll get some sort of a job — ^you see.” 

“You’re not old enough for nursing : besides, that doesn’t 
pay, unless you’re properly trained.” 

“Oh, well. I’ll do something else. Perhaps they’ll take 
me on where you are. Anyhow, you’ll find I can be an awful 
help; there are all sorts of things I can do. Cooking now 
— we used to make topping scrambled eggs over the gas- 
jet at school, and once an omelette — only it stuck to the pan 
and got burnt.” 

It was already almost dark; the flare of foundries, the 
glimmer of street lamps grew against the twilight. The rain 
had ceased and the streets shone like canals. The cinema 
was a combination of American divorce drama, cowboys and 
politicians. Every time the lights went up men seemed to 
be staring at Maisie. 

On the way home, despite the darkened streets, some one 
followed the two girls to their very door. Maisie flew. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


255 


“We’ll make him run,” she said bolted round wrong corners 
and giggled ; actually drew Rose back into an inky doorway, 
so that their pursuer overshot his mark. But he was close 
behind them again by the time they reached Mrs. Raikes’ 
house ; actually lifted his hat, began to speak as they waited 
for the door to be opened. Maisie was a little frightened 
at this, but her cheeks were glowing, her eyes dancing. 
“My hat! what would old Courland have said!” she ex- 
claimed, holding on to her sister in the narrow hall, panting 
and giggling. 

“A good thing as you’ve come in when you ’ave,” re- 
marked the landlady sourly. “I was just on my way up 
ter bed. Folks as expect other folks ter be at it night an’ 
day ’ull find themselves mistaken, that’s all!” She went 
off, muttering, grumbling. 

It was only just on half-past nine, and Maisie leant over 
the banisters and put out her tongue in the direction of the 
frowsy gray head. A distinct smell of cooking floated up 
from the basement; Mrs. Raikes was not going to bed at 
all ; only preparing her supper — bloaters and toasted cheese, 
to judge by the odors. 

“The old beast! — What in the world possesses you to 
stay ?” 

“If you only knew how difficult it is to get cheap lodgings 
of any sort anywhere? I walked miles and miles — we 
simply can’t afford to quarrel with her.” 

“Oh, money, money, money! Rotten old money! It’s 
no good worrying about it; it doesn’t make it go any 
further,” cried Maisie, still good-natured and exhilarated, 
but impatient. 

She was hungry again and would have liked some cocoa, ^ 
but there was no milk. 

“Let’s ring the bell, and see the old Gorgon’s face when 
she comes up,” she suggested. But fortunately enough 
there was no bell, so that danger was averted ; and she went 
to bed grumbling, declaring that she would never be able to 
sleep a wink. 


CHAPTER II 

Next day Rose managed to get a post for her sister in the 
commercial house where she herself was engaged. Maisie 
was quick enough, very observant for so long as she took an 


256 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


interest in anything, amused by the sense of independence, 
the importance of starting off to work like a man each morn- 
ing. She pictured what her friends would have thought 
could they have seen her; she had never known any girl 
who worked for a living, for one could not be said to “know” 
one’s dressmaker. She felt important, almost unique. 
Then she found that she was living in a world of working- 
girls, and that no one thought anything about that ; the only 
difference was that her clothes were far better cut than 
theirs — at once smarter and plainer — ^lier knowledge of busi- 
ness methods far less. 

She was hopelessly inaccurate. During the first few days 
this did not matter; her ardor counterbalanced her other 
deficiencies; besides, every one made allowances for a be- 
ginner, and her personal attractions counted for a good 
deal. But when once she grew bored her attractions were 
dimmed: she did not take the trouble to hide her feelings, 
her contempt. She was careless and idle; always staring 
out of the window or glancing at the clock. More than once 
she was late in the morning. Rose was in a fever trying 
to get her off, but she could not wait for her, was obliged to 
go ahead, leave her the price of a tram-fare to make up, so 
far as possible, for lost time. 

Then, one rainy morning she refused to stir from her bed, 
and Rose was given a week’s salary for her in lieu of notice. 
The head clerk was very nice about it. 

*T don’t think the work is quite suitable for your sister, 
you know. Miss Hoyland. It seems like keeping a bird in 
a cage; and then — Well, you’ll understand, it doesn’t do 
to be too easy, on account of the other girls. I’m sure there 
are plenty of openings — ” 

Doubtless he was right; the difficulty was to find these 
openings. Rose was engaged all day, Maisie had no idea 
of where to go, what to do ; one could not even trust her 
to answer an advertisement. If she did not want to go out, 
or fancied another direction, she would put it off, declaring 
that it would do quite as well next day. She did, however — 
and she could act upon her own initiative shrewdly enough 
when it so pleased her — ^get in touch with some cinema- 
producing firm, earn a guinea or two as part of a crowd. 
But that could not last: the cinema people were impudent, 
vulgar; gross men like pigs and goats made love to her. 
She lived for admiration, but not of this sort; had even 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


257 


looked down her nose at the clerks in Skefhngton & Clegg's. 

At last she got a position in the show-room of a large 
dress-making and millinery establishment. Her good looks, 
her pretty, graceful figure, the fact that Sheffield was full of 
foreigners and that she spoke French fluently was all in her 
favor. She kept this position for close on a month; but 
she was always late in the mornings — later and later as time 
went on; there was difficulty with one of the shop-walkers, 
and a senior assistant to whom he was engaged, and Maisie 
was dismissed. Then came a short engagement to take out 
a couple of children for a few hours each day. But that 
also ended in disaster. 

One of the children, a boy of five, refused to come when 
she called him, stood engrossed, watching a man with a hose 
in the public gardens; and to mark her displeasure Maisie 
walked on ahead, alone with the other child. 

When she turned, she discovered that the boy had 
vanished among the crowd, and, finding no trace of him, was 
obliged to go back to her employer’s house and report upon 
what had happened. — “Anyhow,” as she said to Rose later, 
“if I had a kid like that, I’d be only too thankful to any one 
who would lose him for me.” 

The boy, who had been taken to the nearest police-station, 
enjoyed himself hugely, and was back at his own home 
within an hour ; but, of course, it meant Maisie’s dismissal, 
which the mother was glad enough of a chance to give ; she 
had always thought Miss Hoyland looked rather “fast,” not 
quite the sort of person she really needed. Though she had 
appeared well enough satisfied until her husband remarked 
upon the girl’s good looks, took to opening the door for her 
— “just as if she was one of ourselves!” as the indignant 
wife remarked. 

At last Rose was bound to acknowledge that her sister 
would never give satisfaction in any sort of work which was 
without variety, some spice of interest and amusement — 
what filled her with satisfaction would fret Maisie to a 
fever — and so, much against the grain, allowed her to answer 
an advertisement for “several young ladies of good ap- 
pearance to walk on at the Queen’s Theatre.” She could 
not leave her own work to go with her when she made her 
application; but there was evidently something stimulating 
in the interview, for the girl was in a state of wildest excite- 
ment during the whole of that evening. 


258 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


Anyhow, she got the job, and now Rose found herself at 
work night and day, for she would not allow her young 
sister to come home from the theater alone. It was bad 
enough to be obliged to leave her unchaperoned at rehearsals 
and afternoon performances ; to be out all day and not know 
what she might be up to ; but there seemed nothing else for 
it. The intervals between getting back from the office and 
going to the theater were filled up with cooking, shopping, 
washing-up, tidying their two rooms. She was too tired to 
look at a book, and got through her petty tasks very slowly, 
continually forgetting things, dropping things. Her whole 
strength was absorbed by the effort of keeping her intelli- 
gence screwed up to concert-pitch for so long as she was at 
business; for if that stand-by went, there was no knowing 
what they would do, with nothing but Maisie’s pound a week 
to depend upon. As to Spanish lessons and shorthand, all 
that was quite hopeless. 

To add to her other worries, Mrs. Raikes gave them 
notice on account of the hours they kept. She had grown so 
accustomed to Rose’s quiet regularity that she was spoilt for 
anything else, from them at least, though she might put up 
with all sorts of tricks from new lodgers. 

There was great difficulty in finding fresh quarters. A 
night or two had to be put in at the Young Women’s Chris- 
tian Association. In the end they were forced to take 
more expensive and not over-clean rooms, with a landlady 
who did not care what her lodgers did or what hours they 
kept; indeed, it seemed as though people were coming and 
going all night, talking, laughing, singing, quarreling. 

Maisie — being one of those people who inevitably spend 
money before they earn it — declared that the extra rent 
really did not matter, for she was certain to get a rise before 
long. 

But the rise did not come. Instead of this, she grew 
bored with her work, talked of giving it up. There was 
some difficulty which Rose could never get at quite ; Maisie 
was sulky and out of sorts ; nothing pleased her, and, indeed, 
life was at its dullest, flattest. The weather was hot and 
thundery, everything one touched felt gritty; the freshness 
of spring was past, the town summer like some frowsy, over- 
stout matron. All the clerks at Skeffington & Clegg’s were 
talking of their holidays, asking where Rose meant to go. 

But how could Rose go anywhere, when she had no money. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


259 


when there was Maisie to be considered? She had hated 
the idea of the stage, but now was obsessed by the fear lest 
her young sister should do something stupid, lose her 
job. 

It came inevitably, but for once not through Maisie’s own 
fault; indeed, she had suddenly, and quite inexplicably, 
turned over a new leaf, ceased to grumble and repine, shown 
herself in one of her rare moods of gayety and sweet temper. 
But it was already the middle of the slack season ; the man- 
ager had hoped that with the crowds of war- workers super- 
imposed on to the ordinary population he might have been 
able to carry on until the autumn. The interest in tnat par- 
ticular show, however, went out all of a sudden, like a 
blown candle which has promised to flicker on indefinitely; 
it was not worth staging anything else during the summer 
months, and the theater was closed down. 

To Rose’s intense surprise, Maisie answered another ad- 
vertisement for a young lady to take out children, three this 
time ; obtained the position and, by some effort of will, kept 
it. 

It was only for the mornings, and the pay was miserable ; 
but yet, when Rose suggested her finding something of the 
same sort for the afternoon also, she absolutely refused. 

‘T must have some time to myself. Besides, look at all 
I do at home.” 

This was true, for she had suddenly taken to furbishing 
up her clothes, keeping the rooms immaculately neat and 
tidy. When she did choose to put her hand tp anything, she 
was far defter and quicker than her sister. Rose just ‘Mid” 
things, very carefully, rather slowly; but Maisie added a 
polish, an air. And not only was she industrious : she was 
gay, good-tempered, obliging; forever singing or laughing; 
more affectionate, too, in a new, coaxing sort of way. 

This peaceful state of affairs went on for so long that the 
elder girl grew uneasy. She was not very clever, but she 
had seen enough of life to realize that it takes a very great 
deal to really change any one; that such contentment and 
docility were hardly natural. 

Then there came a day when she happened to get off work 
earlier than usual, on account of the sudden death of one of 
the junior partners of the firm, and, going home, met her 
landlady as she passed through the hall: a stout, untidy 
woman, with large artificial diamond earrings and a quantity 


260 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


of dyed hair, whom she but seldom saw, as both girls had 
their own latchkeys. 

She nodded to Rose, wished her good afternoon; then, 
just as she was half-way up the stairs — careful not to touch 
the banisters, greasy with dirt — she called after her. 

‘‘Oh, Miss ’Oyland, I didn’t see your sister when she came 
in, but perhaps you’ll tell her as ’er gentleman friend said he 
wasn’t able to wait no longer.” 

“What — who?” Rose was stupefied. 

“The young fellow as comes to see ’er. You don’t mean 
to say that she never told you anything about it ? Ah, well, 
girls will be girls, same way as boys will be boys — though 
there’s many as won’t allow it, and that’s where the trouble 
comes in. Any’ow, I’m sorry if I given the show away; 
not but — Look ’ere, Miss ’Oyland” — she moved a step 
forward and touched Rose’s hand, which lay along the ban- 
ister and clung to it, for by this time she was forgetful of 
dirt, forgetful of everything apart from Maisie, Maisie’s 
astounding duplicity — “I’m not one as goes in for being too 
straight-laced myself ; it ain’t wholesome nowadays ; human 
nature’s like cream, and goes sour with over-much bottling- 
down, that’s what I says. But she’s a fine girl, and young, 
and young blood’s hot an’ sorter don’t-careish — I know what 
I’d feel like if she was my own. But there — I wouldn’t 
’ave said anything if the cat ’adn’t ’opped out o’ the bag, 
so to speak. Come to that, it ain’t no business o’ mine; 
but they’ve been too much alone in those there rooms o’ 
yours, and that’s the truth. Walkin’ out, that’s a different 
matter, now !” 

Rose was beaten; her legs dragged so that she felt as 
though she would never surmount the two long flights of 
stairs leading to their rooms. 

Maisie, who was washing up the breakfast things — which 
had to be left until one or another of them returned home — 
began talking directly her sister entered the room. For the 
first time for weeks she seemed thoroughly out of temper, 
her cheeks unnaturally flushed, her eyes clouded and sullen. 

“Rose! Well! Whatever brings you home now? Of 
course, the very day that I’m behindhand with everything. 
But isn’t that just like it! If one thing goes wrong, every- 
thing goes wrong — ^beastly old world !” She flung out of 
the-^Qor with a basin of dirty water; then came back and 
wrunjg out her dish-cloth with an impatient grimace. — “Good 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


261 


Lord! how sick I am of all this messing and muddling! 
All for nothing — nothing out of it I Just the stupidest food, 
the filthiest lodgings — no new clothes, no amusement, no 
anything ; one might as well be dead, or half-dead, like you 
are.” 

Rose had sat down by the table, but she did not speak. 
She had taken off her hat, and began pulling out the faded 
bows — only two years ago, how it had shone in one of the 
smartest of the Biarritz shop windows, all blue ribbon and 
cornflowers. Her face wore a curious expression of apathy, 
almost vacancy ; she looked like some one who has suddenly 
received a violent blow on the head. 

*‘I shall go down to the theater and see when they’re start- 
ing again,” went on Maisie. “Those rotten people with 
their miserable children ! They kept me close upon an hour 
late again this afternoon. It’s too much of a good thing — 
for eight shillings a week, too! I’d rather do anything: 
beg — ^go on the streets and have done with it!” 

She flung out the last sentence in defiance, half frightened. 
After all, she was not supposed to know of such things, and 
the veil of correct maidenhood had grown to be a sort of 
sheath beneath which anything might hide, so long as it was 
not rent by word or deed. “That girl in the fur coat whom 
we saw with Charlie ; she doesn’t pig it like we do — you bet !” 

“Well — ?” She had paused, waiting for some protest, 
and as none came, glanced at her sister angrily. Suddenly 
it seemed as though Rose, stupid old Rose, were the cause of 
all her trouble. And yet, after all, what a mercy it was that 
she had chosen that particular afternoon to come home a 
couple of hours earlier than usual. Maisie’s sullen temper 
was crossed by a half-hysterical titter as she wondered 
what might have happened if it had been a couple of days 
earlier. 

Then, all at .once, she was struck by her sister’s immo- 
bility ; impatient, disappointed, full of all the seething yeast 
of youth, such dullness seemed to be almost beyond bearing. 

“What ! Isn’t there going to be any ‘Oh, Maisie !’ ?” 

Still Rose neither spoke nor moved, and, darting forward, 
the younger girl shook her hy the shoulder. “For goodness’ 
sake, say something — anything!” she cried. “You might 
as well be dead, sitting there in that way !” 

Rose moved a little aside from under her sister’s hand. 
Her face was deadly white, for there was nothing in the 


262 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

world which her life with her mother had taught her to 
dread like anything in the way of a scene, accusations, re- 
criminations : the very thought of it enfeebled, deadened her; 
she gathered herself together, shrinking as some people 
shrink from the report of a gun. 

“You have no business to receive men here alone, when 
I’m out — to deceive me like that,” she said in a low voice. 

Maisie, with her young cynicism, had known that the thing 
could not go on for ever, that she would be found out ; had 
counted upon “an awful row,” and not altogether cared. 
But Rose’s tone, the manner of her accusation, if such it 
could be called, was so altogether out of proportion to what 
she had expected, realized as deserved, that she was thunder- 
struck, almost frightened, though she managed to retort with 
something about “men.” 

“Men ! One man — a mere boy ! I don’t see the harm in 
that.” 

“You shouldn’t do it; it’s not right; you oughtn’t to. 
If you thought there was no harm, you would have told me. 
But there” — Rose gave a deep sigh — “what am I to do? 
What can I do? Everything’s difficult enough, as it is. — 
Oh, dear, dear !” 

Suddenly, to Maisie’s surprise, she began to cry, altogether 
as though she were the guilty one. The tears streamed 
down her cheeks, on to her hands, her lap, the blue bows of 
her hat ; reviving them to something of their primal glow. 

“I don’t see what there is to make a fuss about,” protested 
the younger girl uneasily; though the greater part of her 
dismay arose from the fact that Rose was making so little 
fuss, or rather making it in such an odd way. “It isn’t as 
though you really cared, as though any one had ever cared. 
And now — when somebody does love me, oh, madly — like 
that— is it any wonder ? One might as well be dead as al- 
ways going on and on with nothing ever happening.” 

She moved to the window and stood gazing out, a slim 
figure against the sunlight which filtered in^. mot^-laden, 
through dirty panes. 

Suddenly Rose’s heart was torn with anguished feeling: 
she had resented Maisie’s coming, disagreed with her in every 
sort of way, nursed a resentment against her which was no 
vvhit^ diminished by the fact that she did her duty, said 
nothing. She felt curiously dimmed, left behind, out of it, 
in her sister’s presence; always had done, ever since the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


263 


younger girl was eight or nine years of age. But there had 
been a time before this when she was the one unfailing sun 
of Maisie’s universe: a time when Maisie could not have 
gone to sleep without Rose’s good-night kiss, have slept 
anywhere save at her side : when a bruised knee or scratched 
finger was healed by her kiss alone; times such as those 
when she had been laid up with measles or whooping-cough, 
and could not bear her out of her sight for a moment ; take 
food or medicine from any other hand, find rest save in her 
arms. 

It all came to an end quite suddenly. Maisie discovered 
that Rose was stupid and slow; there were lots of other 
people to make a fuss of her; besides, she had got over 
all her childish ailments, did not know what it was to 
be ill. 

But now the memory of those old days returned to Rose 
— it was like it is when a person dies, and one remembers 
nothing but the good that was in them, the far-away, happy, 
loving hours. Apart from all this, Maisie had been so gay 
and kind the last few weeks, seemed to cling to her again ; 
it was, indeed, as though she was so overcharged with excited 
affection, feeling, that it overflowed on to her sister. 

“Oh, Maisie, Maisie!” she said, in a tone so different 
from that “Oh, Maisie!” which the younger girl had been 
expecting that she turned, saw that Rose was holding out 
her arms and, moving to her side, knelt beside her, held her- 
self stiffly for a moment, then yielded, pressing close against 
her. 

“I do love you, Maisie. I do love you — ^there is no one 
else but you.” 

“Rosie-posie — dear old Rosie-posie !” It was the old 
childish name; for awhile they clung together, their cheeks 
pressed against each other. Even Maisie, the hard, confident 
Maisie, was crying; there was no separating their tears. 

It was she who spoke first, whispering: “Rosie-posie, 
who told you?” 

“Mrs. Saunders. He was here this afternoon; he left a 
message with her — she didn’t mean to tell, made sure I knew ; 
just gave me the message to say that he could not wait.” 

“Ah-h!” Rose could feel a tremor of delight pass 
through the girl, close-pressed to her side. “I knew he must 
have been — ^I knew he wouldn’t have failed me. But those 
pigs — ^how they kept me hanging on and on! And all the 


264. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


time I was in a fever, thinking what a mess the room would 
be in, if he was waiting here. Why, just fancy! you might 
have got back first, seen him. We had a plan, such a plan 
— a sort of lark — that if ever you did come you would open 
the door and hear him say — of course the stairs creak, so we 
would have heard you — ‘Well, Miss Hoy land, you agree to 
that, then? A pound a week — six evening performances 
and two matinees?’ He practiced looking like a sort of 
stage-manager or agent, puffing himself out like old Grice. 
Funny, too screamingly funny, for if ever there was any one 
more completely different — ” 

“Where did you meet him ?” 

“Oh, he used to wait for me after rehearsals and matinees. 
Sometimes in the evening he would be outside the door, and 
I would brush past him, quite close, quite. Oh, Rose, it was 
fun! You so grave and worried, thinking of nothing but 
trams or wet feet — you never saw us look, my cheeks on 
fire ! The only wonder is they didn’t burn you. We used to 
laugh at that, too; we were always laughing then. ‘Some 
day,’ he said, ‘your sister will fly to the nearest fire-alarm, 
break the glass before you can stop her’ — then again — he 
is so silly! — ^‘I saw a beggar warming his hands at your 
face, six yards away, more!’ Oh, what fun it was — most 
fun of all, just then.” She sighed, hung silent for a mo- 
ment or two, then moved uneasily within the fold of Rose’s 
arm. 

“I’m getting all cramped up!” The elder girl loosened 
her arm and Maisie rose to her feet, moved again to the win- 
dow. “Ah, well!” — there was an air of finality about the 
words, as though to say — “that’s over and done with !” 

But Rose was more tenacious. “Is he a gentleman? — 
Oh, but he can’t be, coming here like that, taking advantage 
of your being alone.” 

“Of course he’s a gentleman !” Maisie flung round, flam- 
ing. “Do you think that I’d take up with any one who 
wasn’t — like those bounders at Skeffington and Clegg’s — 
those awful cinema-men?” 

“What does he do?” 

“I don’t think that he does anything. Every one doesn’t 
have to work, to grind out their lives. Why, you yourself, 
you never even thought of it in the old days.” 

^ “Anyhow, it’s not right, Maisie, dear ; you know it’s not 
right.” Rose spoke humbly, pleadingly; at a greater dis- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 265 

advantage than ever now that her affections were aroused, 
that she feared to alienate her sister afresh. 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake let’s stop about it ! Let’s go 
out ; we can’t stay shut up here all the rest of the day. Let’s 
have tea somewhere — a real tea.” 

“Yes, let’s!” The elder girl rose with alacrity, trying 
to enter into the spirit of the proposal. She thought: “If 
I take this away from her, I must try and make up.” Then : 
“Better to say nothing more about it.” 

But her thoughts were too deeply engaged for her to re- 
main silent. As she tidied her hair, put on her hat, she burst 
out again. “You don’t know how dangerous it is, Maisie ; 
of course, you can’t know!” Her face was crimson. So 
much that was ugly had been forced upon her own observ- 
ance ; she was so quiet that people had often forgotten her, or 
taken it for granted that their looks, innuendoes, and worse, 
passed by the stolid, silent girl unnoticed. Her own mother 
was continually forgetting her presence or passing it by with 
contempt. But for all that. Rose still retained her belief 
in her younger sister’s innocence, the necessity for maintain- 
ing it. “Things happen — dreadful things. Of course, you 
don’t understand, but you must take my word for it: girls 
get into trouble — girls that you’d think were quite nice, 
didn’t know about anything horrid.” 

Maisie was putting on her hat at the same glass, in front 
of it. Rose, doing her best over her shoulder, realized that 
the girl’s face was flushed, that a withdrawn, half-shamed 
look had come into her eyes, and blamed herself for putting 
things too plainly. 

“Anyhow, all that’s at an end,” she said, trying to speak 
brightly. “You won’t see him again, and we won’t say 
anything more about it.” 

But Maisie had turned away, was already at the door. 
*'Oh, do come along. Rose,” she cried. “You are so slow ; 
the afternoon will be gone.” 

Two or three times that afternoon and evening, during 
which they sat out a sordid cinema in some dirty, stifling 
hall. Rose returned to the question of Maisie’s friend. She 
was too timid to say, “Now let’s have this out, once and 
for all ; give me your word that you won’t see him again.” 
Instead of this, she dropped hints, wavered round and round 
the subject, could not let it be. As a matter of fact — added 
(to her fear of losing the younger girl’s lightly-poised affection 


266 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


— ^the realization of her own helplessness overcame her. If 
Maisie refused to give up this man, what could she do, unless 
it were to turn her out into the street ? And could anything 
be worse than that ? Her sister was six years younger than 
herself ; she was responsible for her ; there was no one else 
to care what happened. Once she thought, and, more dis- 
astrous still, remarked : “What would Charles say ?” Upon 
which Maisie laughed, a curiously hard and mature laugh. 

“Charles ! My hat, I like that !” 

Then, back home again, preparing for bed — in the room 
which they now shared, opening out of the sitting-room — 
she declared her mind. Rose was mildly religious, or not 
so much mildly as gropingly. She did not believe anything 
very much; her life had not taught her to have any con- 
fidence in human nature, and she could not think of God 
save as a sort of man, even more jealous and exacting than 
the rest of His kind. But still, she repeated certain fixed 
prayers each night. If she was in any difficulty she added 
a special petition; not with any active hope that it would 
be granted, but rather because it ^ :emed best to try every- 
thing, and, anyhow, one did not have to meet God face to 
face, insist, ar^e things out, as ae did with people. The 
request might just fall to the ground, probably would; but 
there was no fear of any sort of scene, disagreeableness. 

“If you put it in your prayers — ” said Rose. Maisie knelt 
each night because it was expected of her, because there 
would have been a fuss if she hadn’t — even at school, which 
had a High Church tendency — glancing from side to side 
between her fingers, calculating when she might, with de- 
cency, rise from her knees. Generally she counted a hun- 
dred, going rather fast towards the end, and that just did it. 

“Put what in my prayers ?” she demanded, flinging round 
and staring at Rose. 

“Oh, well, you know. For strength to be able to give 
up meeting that man ; to help you not to mind.” 

“To help me not to mind ! As if I wanted not to mind ! 
One might as well pray to be turned into a toad, no feelings, 
no anything!” cried Maisie, half savagely, pulling off her 
clothes anyhow, with sullen, averted face. “Anyhow, I’m 
not going to give him up, so there you have it ; and if you 
keep on worrying, I shall go away with him, live my own 
life” — the old, silly, futile phrase. “I’ve had enough of it 
so there !” 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


267 


*‘If he really wants to marry you — ” began Rose doubt- 
fully, after a long pause, during which the younger girl had 
climbed into bed, drawn the sheet up to her chin. 

“Marry!’’ She laughed rather shrilly. “Marry! Why, 
he’s a mere boy, I tell you — not twenty.” 

“Then you oughtn’t — I can’t allow — Really, Maisie, I 
can’t—” 

“Oh, for the Lord’s sake, stop it! Anyhow, I’ve given 
you fair warning. If you come home and find me gone one 
fine day, you’ll know what’s happened, that’s all!” cried 
Maisie; and, dragging the bedclothes up over her head, 
she turned round with her face to the wad; the very curve 
of her huddled figure eloquent of resentful obstinacy. 

For an hour or more Rose sat idle in her chair, bent a 
little forward, her brush and comb lying in her lap, her hand 
hanging at her side. Then, at last, cramped and chilled, she 
finished undressing and crept into bed, where she lay staring 
out in front of her, trying to think, to reason, to make up her 
mind as to what was the best course to pursue, listening the 
while to her young sister’s tranquil and even breath. 

CHAPTER III 

Life sagged on, July and August stiflingly hot and jaded ; 
September a little fresher and less hectic, as though the year 
were beginning to settle down to middle-age. 

September — October — ^the anxieties of war — the long- 
delayed peace — the change of seasons: what it ^11 meant 
to Rose Hoyland was cold, dark mornings swooping down 
upon her with the end of a breathless Indian summer ; chill 
walks through dull and misty mornings; life, as a whole, 
growing more rather than less difficult. 

As to Maisie, she had one petty engagement after another, 
while for weeks between, she was out of work. But, for all 
that, there was a more or less fluctuating supply of funds. 
“Saved over from my last job,” she would say, knowing, 
and knowing that Rose knew, this could scarcely be the case, 
with jobs as badly paid and as short-lived as hers were. And 
yet it seemed certain that she must have at least one good 
meal a day during her sister’s office hours; for while she 
barely touched any of the mean food it was possible to pro- 
vide in their own rooms, she did not grow any thinner ; it 


268 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


seemed to Rose, indeed, as though she were putting on flesh ; 
but, for all that, it was plain that she was not well — indeed, 
far from well. She was listless and dreamy, she moved 
more slowly and heavily, as though continually tired — Maisie, 
whose every motion had been swift and skimming as a 
swallow! At the same time she became extraordinarily 
secretive. It was not only in relation to that secret lovet 
that she ‘‘kept herself to herself,’^ as the saying goes, but 
in every — even in the most trivial, as it seemed — motion of 
her daily life. 

She had up to this shown all a modern young girl^s dis- 
regard of what used to be regarded as the lesser decencies of 
life. Rose had fought with her over her trick of going to 
the water tap on the public landing in nothing but her 
night-dress ; of wandering about their room, careless of the 
open window, in totally inadequate clothing. But now she 
had grown sensitive, or so it seemed: insisted upon a bed- 
room of her own, and actually managed to pay for a tiny 
slip of a place out of her own pocket. Another reason she 
gave for this move — apart from her dislike to Rose's “star- 
ing” — was that she liked to read in bed at night, and did 
not want to keep her sister awake. But she could not have 
read much, for Rose observed that one book was allowed 
to lie on the chair by her bed for weeks at a t^me, until it 
was thick with dust, though when she mentioned this fact 
she was flown at for “spying.” It was always like this now ; 
she could not comment upon anything without drawing down 
upon herself this accusation from Maisie, who at one time 
had insisted upon the conversation being incessantly en- 
grossed with herself and her own affairs. 

She hated Rose going into her room ; would bundle what- 
ever she happened to be busy with out of sight ; sit upon her 
bed with a sullen, aggressively idle air, until her sister with- 
drew. And yet, why? — why? — for she never seemed to be 
engaged with anything more important than her clothes : for 
ever fiddle-faddling over them, spoiling the clear, neat line 
of them, or so it seemed to Rose. 

She grew to look older, almost haggard, and yet more 
appealingly childish than she had ever done before, despite 
that persistent air of hardness, hands-off-ishness, which was 
worn like a glass mask betwixt the outer world and her 
appealing, half-scared self ; the fear, excitement, wonder 
which every now and then peeped out through her eyes and 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


269 


drew swiftly back again ; while even Rose could not fail to 
notice the way in which she would flush suddenly, open her 
mouth as though to speak, and close it again in a hard, tight 
line, which shut herself, her real self, firmly away behind it. 
There had always been just one Maisie — there was never 
any girl more single-minded, uncomplicated, in her greed 
for pleasure and admiration, displaying herself, her every 
mood, as a peacock displays its tail. But she was not like 
that now : there were two Maisies, and even the one which 
showed itself was not at all the one to which Rose had been 
accustomed in the old days; that, indeed, seemed to be 
gone for ever. 

There was really no getting at her. That sudden, spon- 
taneous flow of affection, on the day Rose made her dis- 
covery, was the very last glimpse of feeling which showed 
itself. It had softened Rose so completely back into her 
old state of love and solicitude for her younger sister that 
she was constantly longing for something of the sort to occur 
again, pathetically eager. It was the sort of thing which 
drives so many women to scenes — the sense that they cannot 
get at any real feeling without them. But it seemed as 
though the very fact of having shown any feeling had sealed 
up the fountains of it in Maisie — anyhow, so far as Rose was 
concerned — for ever and a day ; it was like a rush of blood 
which staunches itself with a hard clot. 

If Rose had not been forced to spend the whole of each 
work day away from home, she would have noticed some- 
thing more definite than all this. For the first few weeks 
after they had that talk together Maisie was defiantly happy. 
It was as though she said to herself : 'T will be happy ; 
I will go on being happy ; I daren't stop even for a minute, 
for there’s no knowing what might happen if I did.” 

She kept on the top of everything, was gay and rather 
noisy, swam in a sort of maze of excited pleasure. There 
were new and rather outre clothes which Rose had never so 
much as seen; presents of sweets and flowers, hidden jew- 
elry. Maisie was generous; she did not care for keeping 
things to herself ; now and then she brought out a few sweets 
in a screw of paper for Rose’s benefit, as though she had just 
bought them, breaking up the gay boxes into bits and 
burning them. But even an ounce of chocolates was an 
extravagance in those days ; and as for the other things, she 
simply dared not show them. 


270 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


It was nice to get presents ; she had always adored them, 
particularly anything in the way of “a surprise.” But after 
a little while a dark shadow swam across even* that pleasure; 
for at the back of her mind, which was in its own way 
shrewd enough, there grew up an idea that these presents 
represented a sort of apology for something greater which 
ought to be offered and was not going to be. Yes, that was 
it ; as time went on, this became more and more certain ; they 
were an apology, and not a surety. 

Still she persistently refused to look forward. The more 
frightened she became, the more frantically she sucked at 
such honey as life offered to her. 

The pathetic part of the whole affair was that if existence 
had continued along the same lines which she had always 
been brought up to believe that it must inevitably follow, 
nothing would have happened as it did happen. Her fancy 
would have flitted from one person, one thing, to another ; she 
would have been constantly amused, spoon-fed with admira- 
tion. Life, so much less dull — indeed, shorn of all dullness 
by its very variety — of the sort to which she was most 
suited — would, in its darker, graver and more dreadful 
aspects, have slid past her; satisfied by a perpetual suc- 
cession of trifles, she would have shown herself far less avid. 
It would have been like a dinner of a great many little 
courses, in which one never eats quite enough of anything for 
it to disagree. And then there was Rose. If Rose had been 
less virginal — “proper,” as Maisie called it — she would have 
talked to her more; and the very fact of putting her own 
feelings, what seemed like the g'amour of temptation, into 
words might have cleared her ideas, shown her the ugliness 
of the risks which she ran. 

But she had no one to talk to, no outlet ; nothing to amuse 
her and no tastes for any sort of amusement, not even a 
hobby. Upon one thing only was she insistent — she would 
be happy ; she would, and she would, and she would. Better 
any sort of disaster than a life like Rose led, colorless as 
that of a silkworm. 

But even before her elder sister had found out anything, 
before that talk, the flow of delight and wonder had become 
less regular. The parts in her comedy, that of the one who 
was to amuse and the other who was to be amused, had 
shifted a little ; it was she who had to arrange meetings, 
etc., in place of having them arranged, entreated for. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


271 


And upon this, from a feeling that she could not endure 
the flatness of life without him, with nothing, nothing — there 
it was, the thought so common, so fatal to women — ^that he 
must be given more if she were to keep him — had come that 
episode which had turned mere fun to fear, terrifying until it 
was repeated ; and then, oddly deadening, saddening, because 
it seemed all that was left to her, until the dawn of a deeper 
and more specific fear. 

She was not even happy in her love ; there was no comfort 
to it. Her lover was not to be counted upon. Sometimes 
he was brutally greedy, sometimes as brutally indifferent, 
sometimes tender ; while at times — and these periods puzzled 
her more and more — he was painfully formal and shy, as 
though half forgetting what she was to him. And at first 
it was partly this glamour of never understanding, never 
being certain, of something altogether mysterious, which 
held her. 

Once, when it had been arranged that they should meet, 
she waited and waited for close upon two hours at the ap- 
pointed place — a damp, secluded spot in some smoke-blurred 
and infinitely dreary public garden, little more than a de- 
serted square. 

At last, in complete despair, worn out by the hope that 
every figure which entered the place might be his, nearly 
blinded with tears, her heart sick within her — for she was her 
old self in this, that, as she had been used to say so frankly, 
she could bear anything in the world apart from disappoint- 
ment — she was making her way home, when she caught sight 
of him standing hesitating at a street corner — standing there 
as though he had been suddenly dropped from he knew not 
where to he knew not where; looking so distraught, so 
utterly scared and miserable — as scared as herself — ^that the 
reproaches with v/hich she was prepared died away upon her 
lips as she approached him; took one hand — hanging loose 
at his side,’ while the other was to his lips — and slipping her 
arm through his, drew him along, faltering, at her side, her 
whole being flooded with love and pity — real love, some- 
thing very different from the combination of greed, vanity 
and excitement which had before possessed her, the hard 
vulgarity of that thought of “paying him out,^’ which almost 
amounted to the “seeing herself righted” of the lower classes. 

“Oh, my .dear!” she said; then: “Oh, my dear, my dear, 
what is it ?” There was a tiny restaurant near at hand, and 


272 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


she drew him into this, where over hot tea and stony, taste- 
less buns he seemed to revive a little, while a faint color 
came into his ashy face. 

But still there was something about him so strange that 
she was appalled; for though there is a mystery which 
arouses curiosity, there is a deeper sort of mystery which 
spells fear, and Maisie was afraid. 

There had been a girl at school who was given to all sorts 
of boring quotations. There was one something like : “Oh, 
knight at arms, why art thou palely loitering?’* or was it: 
“alone and palely loitering?” 

Why had he “palely” loitered alone like that when she 
was waiting for him? Why did he look at her now in that 
gently puzzled fashion, as though he scarcely remembered 
her: so oddly appealing, so like a lost child? 

It was this childishness which roused the girl to some- 
thing over and above her fear, which loosed in her some well- 
spring of true aifection, tender solicitude. Her spoilt-beauty 
airs were at an end for the moment. She was possessed 
by a maternal passion for this strange creature who had so 
dominated her — foreshadowing, as it seemed, something 
deeper and less sensual than she had yet known. 

They had seated themselves in what passed for a “cosy 
corner” in the inner room of the restaurant, which was 
nearly empty, for it was late for tea and too early for dinner. 

Every now and then Maisie heard herself saying: “Never 
mind, my darling, never mind — don’t worry; it’s all right; 
don’t worry.” But, for the most part, they sat silent, 
clinging to each other’s hands, shoulders close-pressed to- 
gether. Life was very dreadful, not in the least like it had 
seemed to be. One came into it with no weapon, no knowl- 
edge of tactics, was caught up in it, whirled here and there, 
and dropped to earth astounded. 

Maisie, for all her lightness, was the only one of her family 
with any imagination, and the last few weeks of suffering 
had stimulated it; she saw life as neither Rose nor Charles 
could ever have done ; felt it, too, despite the superficial hard- 
ness of youth. 

It might have been thought that she attained to complete 
womanhood quite a long while ago, before she and Rose had 
that talk together. But this was not the case. Even those 
weeks of excitement — the shame and fear, which at first 
came and went, then gathered until it threatened to over- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


273 


whelm her — had not really touched the depths of her nature ; 
merely diverted, spread it out; disturbed the ever-shifting 
shallows. She had still been the young girl, in spite of every- 
thing : that “hard thing,” as George Eliot calls her. And it 
was not in her love, her passion, that she ultimately attained 
to the best that was in her ; rather in her half-fearful, alto- 
gether bewildered desire to help the man whom she must still 
count upon to help her. 

One satisfying thing he did say: “I love you, Maisie; 
never forget that I love you. I don't know what happens, 
what possesses me. I am brutal, cruel to you. I don’t know 
how things can happen as they do — oh, I don’t know. But 
there is always this — always this — I love you, my darling — 
my own !” 

They clung together as though they were drowning; as 
though, desperate in a way which they could scarcely under- 
stand — even Maisie, with her greater shrewdness — ^their 
only safety lay in each other. 


CHAPTER IV 

And yet, after this came weeks of absolute silence. 
Weeks ! And that at a time when Maisie was beginning to 
count, was everlastingly counting, months, weeks, days: 
fitting everything to it ; the ’buses that passed their door, the 
flowers on the sitting-room wallpaper. 

They had arranged their next meeting for the following 
Wednesday, because that last day had been a Saturday, and 
trains were most convenient upon Saturdays and Wednes- 
days. But though she was punctual at the appointed place, 
he did not appear; or the next Wednesday, or the next 
Saturday either, or the next, or the next. It seemed as 
though everything had stopped dead, like a clock ; apart from 
that fear at her heart, which advanced by bounds, eating 
up the days. 

There had been something attractive in the way in which 
her lover came and went ; from where, to where, she knew 
not — a sort of Cupid and Psyche touch. She was amazed 
now at her own stupidity, at the things which had seemed to 
matter so much more. He had never told her his address, 
never mentioned the place at which he lived, and she had 
never made any inquiries upon the subject. She had thought 


274 * 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


of it, idly enough, in between their meetings; but when they 
were together there seemed so many more important things 
to talk about. 

And now — only to think of how lost she was ! She hunted 
through the local time-tables for places from which there 
were extra trains upon Wednesdays and Saturdays ; but there 
were so many that no help was to be found there. Directly 
she was certain that it was one place, she became, in a bound, 
just as certain that it was another. 

Hope was at an end ; she shut her teeth upon that. She 
must bear her fate alone, or else put an end to herself ; and 
as the one thing which youth cannot bear is the lack of an 
audience, she wept more bitterly over this thought than over 
any other. 

Then, one wet Saturday, when she had given up eveiy 
thought of going to the gardens, was sitting desolate in their 
little sitting-room — for she had relinquished all idea of regu- 
lar work — there was the sound of his footstep upon the 
stairs. 

The moment he entered the room Maisie realized the 
change in him — so deep that by comparison all the others 
had been mere pencil-scratches. As she rose from her seat 
he took it, the one arm-chair in the room, pulled her to his 
knee, kissed her, and then pushed her aside. 

“Well, what’s wrong now ? You look as though you had 
got the pip about something — just like you women ! Always 
some grievance or other. And such a damnable day, a fellow 
wants something to cheer him, not a face like a funeral — 
enough o’ that at home.” He blurred his words so doggedly, 
that Maisie had a dreadful idea that he had been drinking; 
and she remembered with incredulous horror that there had 
been a time when she had laughed, actually laughed, at the 
stage presentation of a drunken man. 

He plucked at her sleeve, holding her standing at his side. 
“What the devil do you want to wear that shade o’ blue 
for? It makes you look so rottenly pale, doesn’t suit you. 
Peufh! but this room’s stuffy. Get your hat; let’s go out 
somewhere or other, have a bit of a beano. And, for the 
Lord’s sake, change that frock !” 

He was right about the frock — it didn’t suit her. And yet, 
how few weeks ago it had seemed just the right foil for her 
brilliant, rose-carnation coloring! But she was pale now, 
would have been pale in anything, with dark lines beneath 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


275 


her heavy eyes. When she flushed, as she did at his words, 
her color was muddy, and he stared at her with sullen 
distaste. “What have you been doing to yourself? You 
usedn’t to look like that. You want some fresh air — that’s 
what you want. Sticking, moping in here ! The rain’s 
stopped, thank goodness, and we’ll go out and have tea 
somewhere.” 

“I must speak to you. Look here’' — she drew nearer 
and laid her hand upon his arm. “Look here, there’s some- 
thing I must say to you.” 

“All right, all right — ^you can do that as we go along. 
Only hurry up and make yourself decent, and let’s get out 
of this. It beats me how you can live in such a place.” 

He looked round the untidy room with disgust. At one 
time everything unsightly had been bundled out of the way 
upon his approach ; but now Maisie was not only unprepared, 
she was sunk deep into that sort of despair where there is 
a kind of comfort in everything being as bad as it can be. 
It is always difficult to preserve the niceties in a room where 
one is obliged to cook, eat, and carry on all the ordinary 
avocations of life, and she had given up the attempt. 

In her slip of a bedroom, upon a turn of the stairs a little 
higher up, she struggled with her dressing. It was like one 
of those dreams where everything goes wrong, and she was 
in despair. She had difficulty in finding a clean blouse; 
when she did, it was all crumpled, and the running-string 
gone. The safety-pin with which she fastened it to the 
back of her skirt kept on bursting open whenever she raised 
her arms. She ripped a faded ribbon from her hat and 
pinned on another ; then, after trying it on before the mirror, 
replaced it with the old one, for the fresh, bright color made 
her look paler than the other. Her skirt wanted brushing; 
it dipped at the back. She had noticed that in a shop- 
window the very last time she went to the gardens, but 
had been too disheartened to alter it when she came 
back 

The climax of all this came when she soiled her freshly- 
washed hands polishing her boots, and had to wash them 
again. Then, just as she was ready, she heard Mrs. Saun- 
ders’ voice upon the stairs, and a man s deliberate ste^ 
muffled by the distance. The door of the sitting-room opened 
and shut again. Leaving her room and leaning over the 
stair-rail, Maisie was just able to catch the murmur of voices. 


276 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


She was in a state of the wildest panic. Who could the 
man be ? What had he come for ? His footstep had 
sounded middle-aged. Was it her lover’s guardian? She 
knew that his father was dead, that he was not yet of age ; 
had he come to make a scene, to forbid him to visit her 
again ? As little as a month ago she would have laughed at 
the very idea, but she did not laugh now. 

She visualized the sordid untidiness of the shabby room. 
What would the stranger think ? What could he think ? 

With Maisie’s upbringing it seemed worse than it really 
was. All of a sudden she remembered, with cruel distinct- 
ness, life as it used to be. Oh, it was impossible for any 
decent man to marry a girl out of such a hole — a wretched 
hole! That was what any guardian on earth would say, 
and no blame to him, either. And yet she must be married, 
she must, she must! That was what she had been going 
to tell her lover this very afternoon. And, of course, he 
would then have realized all she had suffered — ^been softened, 
bitterly self -reproachful and sorry for her. If only this 
stranger had not appeared, that very day of all days ! Now 
there was no knowing what might happen. 

Once more she flew back to her room and glanced at her- 
self in the glass. She might be called upon to interview this 
mysterious man, and, even if this were not the case, she must 
be looking her very best when she rejoined her lover. There 
was no longer any of that “Oh, well, take me or leave me — 
lucky to get such a girl” feeling. 

She moved on to the tiny landing again, overcome by a 
fever of restlessness ; she would stay there and peep, kneel- 
ing on the floor, looking through the banister to watch 
the stranger come out, she thought. And yet, the moment 
she saw the handle of the sitting-room door move, she ran 
back into her own room; shut the door and stood there, 
with her heart beating so that she could hear nothing beyond 
the pulses which throbbed through her own head. 

At last, appalled at the thought of what her lover might 
say to her, keeping him waiting in that fashion, she ran to 
the head of the stairs, and seeing the sitting-room door wide 
open, down the stairs. 

“My dear! — who in the world was it? I thought — ” 
she began a little shrilly, for whatever it cost her, she must 
be gay; then broke off, her mouth open, staring in a silly 
fashion, white to the very lips. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 277 

For the room was empty. Whoever the stranger might 
be, he had taken her lover away with him. 

That was the end; she thought it had come before, but 
it hadn’t — nowhere near. There was no hope now, no 
chance of telling; she would never see him again, never, 
never, never so long as she lived. 


CHAPTER V 

That “never” was a certainty; to Maisie Hoyland, in her 
ridiculous youth — a youth in which all the precocious know- 
ledge incidental to a cosmopolitan life would not quite cover 
the most incongruous gaps, the oddest freaks of ignorance — 
it seemed certain at four o’clock that day that she could 
never, never, never tell any one of her fears, her misery. 

And yet, by nine the same evening it was all out. 

Rose questioned her upon her air of blank despair, and 
was told to be quiet and not bother — “for God’s sake” to 
be quiet. 

Then, later on, gathering her work together, tidying the 
room as a preparation for bed — studiously quiet, pretending 
to notice nothing freshly amiss — Maisie, hunting feverishly 
through a drawer for nothing in particular, flung round upon 
her. 

“How you can go on and on the way you do without a 
word! Well, now, look here. I suppose I might as well 
tell you — if I didn’t tell you, some one else would. . . . Any- 
how, there would be coroners and people. . . . I’ll tell you 
— not that you’ll care — then I’ll put myself away out of your 
sight once and for all. It’s no good turning down my bed, 
or anything.” 

“But why ? — why ?” 

“Why? — why? — why? Are you an idiot? Seeing me 
every day. Why, even Mrs. Saunders, just meeting me upon 
the stairs, long coat and all, turns and stares, sniffs ! Beast ! 
Trust her to see, to think ! But, oh. Rose, Rose 1 what am 
I to do? What can I do? To be stared at like that by 
everybody — everybody !” 

She was in Rose’s arms, clinging to her. The elder sister 
had her baby, her spoilt child, back again. But, good God, 
at what a price ! 

They talked, wept and talked, far into the night. The 


278 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


flood-gates of all Maisie’s grief and fear — not unmixed with 
an odd sort of pride in knowing so much more than Rose — 
were unlocked, swept over and around her, soaked into her ; 
SO effectually, that at last the young girl was sufficiently 
eased to sink to sleep in her sister’s arms, her eyelashes still 
wet, her breast caught with sob ; while Rose lay wide awake 
until it was time to rise once more, light the gas, start the 
day — dank, unwilling, draped in the first fog of the 
season. 

Luckily, that day’s work was not very exacting. She 
went on with it just as steadily as ever, but in each moment 
of respite her mind reverted back to her sister. She must 
think what was the best thing to do. It all rested with her ; 
there was no one else to arrange anything. Not for one 
moment did it occur to her to ask heij^ brother’s help; she 
did not even think of him save in one connection, as the 
aforetime friend of Philip McCabe. 

That evening, when she took her orderly sheaf of letters 
in to her chief to read, he found one mistake. It was the first 
that he had ever found, and not unnaturally he was annoyed. 

“If you’re going to get careless, too !” he said. 

She knew where McCabe was to be found. He was still 
in Paris ; he had come to England to be decorated by the 
King, and then returned. Nothing is stranger than the odd 
likenesses which are^ as marked as the dissimilarities in hu- 
man nature. If Maisie had her secret lover who was of the 
flesh, Rose had hers of the spirit. 

She did not wish McCabe to belong to her; she did not 
wish to belong to him ; she thought of him without a thrill, 
unless it might be of pride. But she thought of him con- 
stantly, searched the papers for his name, for every mention 
of the hospital where she knew him to be working. 

She walked home so as to have more time for thought. 
Her mind did not work quickly, but it worked with great 
sureness. She now traced back that conversation she had 
heard between her mother and Charles during the time that 
they were in Savoy Court — her mother in the drawing-room 
and her brother in the balcony. Then there were, even 
before that, things which she had heard them say 'about 
McCabe: contemptuous fleers at him for a Quixotic fool: 
that girl who had been with her brother at the sale of her 
mother’s furniture. It was certain that he had tried to help 
her in the sort of way in which Maisie now needed help. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


279 


There was only one person in the world who never 
changed, who was always ready to stand by a friend, that was 
certain, and this was Philip McCabe. She felt less shame at 
the idea of telling him what had happened — though she was 
even more Puritanical concerning Maisie than herself — ^be- 
cause he was a doctor and he would understand. But still, 
it was difficult enough, and her cheeks burned at the very 
thought. She had told her sister that she would not tell any 
one. But at the time she knew that this was not a promise 
which it would be possible to keep ; the people she had lived 
among insensibly helped her here. 

She turned into a little stationer’s shop just close to their 
lodgings ; purchased some paper and envelopes ; then asked 
for permission to write a letter at the accountant’s desk. 

Her sense of driving necessity, the business methods of 
expression which had grown upon her during the last year, 
her awkwardness and embarrassment combined to make of 
it a singularly crude epistle; so crude that even McCabe 
was deceived, until he read it a second, even a third time, 
saying to himself : “Well, upon my soul, she doesn’t seem 
to bother much; and if she doesn’t, why the devil should 
I?” 

Anyhow, there was nothing he could do, nothing he would 
do. He had always thought that Maisie Hoyland looked 
like the sort of girl who wanted a firm hand. If they needed 
help, why didn’t they appeal to their brother, and not to 
him ? Once and for all, this was the sort of thing in which 
never again, so long as he lived, would he meddle. 

He wrote and told Rose as much, gave her a little advice 
which had a deliberate air of putting an end to the cor- 
respondence. 

And yet, when no answer came, he grew uneasy. He had 
been a brute. That poor girl ! Ever since he could remem- 
ber, she seemed to have been a sort of Cinderella, busied over 
the dirty linen of the family. He recalled her set, grave 
ways, as a careworn little old woman of ten or eleven ; watch- 
ing her mother anxiously, to make sure that she was doing 
everything that was expected of her. 

It was all a damned shame ! Why hadn’t Hoyland kept 
an eye upon his sisters ? Where was Hoyland ? What was 
he doing? He had been wounded, he knew, but not in- 
capacitated. 

McCabe had torn up Rose’s letter, thinking to get rid of 


280 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


the thought of it. But gradually the memory of every word 
grew upon his mind, and with it the realization of its abso- 
lute unselfishness. 

He had no personal feeling of any sort for the girl, very 
much doubted whether he would recognize her if he saw her ; 
to his mind she seemed so exactly like every one else. But 
there was that genius for friendship which was almost a vice, 
as so many geniuses are. It was no use for him to tell him- 
self that he owed nothing, less than nothing, to Charles Hoy- 
land’s sisters. Supposing something dreadful were to hap- 
pen — suicide, or anything like that! The absence of a 
further appeal in answer to his letter struck him as more 
ominous than any outpourings, reproaches ; it was so evident 
that he had been implicitly counted upon to help. 

Work was pretty slack; the hospital would very soon be 
demobilized; it was easy enough to get away for a few 
days — he wished to God that it wasn’t. 

Anyhow — though he could never give the sort of help 
which Rose, with that queer, innocent coolness, had asked of 
him — he might be able to make it easier for the girls with ad- 
vice, with money, he thought; and at last, as there was no 
further word, he packed his bag, left a junior man in charge, 
and, crossing to Dover, made his way straight up to Sheffield. 

The two girls had moved from the address which Rose 
Hoyland gave to him. ‘T’m easy enough,” said the land- 
lady, “but there are limits, and I’m not as easy as all that ; 
’avin’ my own character to consider !” 

Fortunately, however, she could give him their new 
address, and he went straight on there that very evening. 
Rose had spoken of work; after all, the evening might be 
the best time to find her at home. 

It was just after nine when he reached the house, after 
passing through a succession of stale streets, which, in their 
gathering meanness, were a tragic revelation of the sliding- 
scale possible to a more or less squalid respectability. The 
slattern — ^more like a floor-cloth than a woman, collarless, 
ragged, down-at-heel — who answered his knock was civil to 
him, or his uniform, though she did not accompany him 
upstairs. 

“I can’t not do it, what with them there veins in me legs, 
as are something awful ; no woman could, with my family 
an’ all on me. Besides which, there ain’t no service given 
with them two top floors. But you’ll find the room right 


THE LITTLE SOUL 281 

enough, the very top an’ opposite ter the^ ’ead of the 
stairs.” 

McCabe, with all his newly-won alert activity, moved as 
slowly and heavily as an old man up the long flights of stairs. 
What a place ! The whole house reeked of stale cooking 
and damp dirt! The banisters were dank to the touch; 
the yellow marbled paper hung in strips or bulged in huge 
blisters. The one gas-jet, away down in the hall, shed a 
flickering light — uncertain as the breath of a dying man — 
as far as the third landing, after which he had to feel his 
'way, conscious that the carpet of the first flight, the torn 
oil-cloth of the second and third, had given way to bare 
boards beneath his feet. 

The whole place seemed emblematical of what he was 
going to — hating it, and yet driven by that strange force of 
pity within him. 

How damnable it was that birth, all that came before and 
after it, should be so lauded — the sanctity of motherhood, 
and all that! — so fussed and gushed over in some circum- 
stances, and in others so pushed away out of sight. How 
fearful that any child should come into the world furtive 
from his first conception, his very cry a menace: people 
looking at each other, shaking their heads or raising their 
eyebrows ! 

The memory came to McCabe of how once, going upstairs 
in a well-known and luxuriously-appointed house, he had, 
out of absent-mindedness, opened the door of a housemaid’s 
cupboard instead of that of the beautiful bedroom to which 
he was bound. Well, that was what life, the giving of life, 
the beginning of life, was in places like this — a housemaid’s 
cupboard. 

He was stumbling against the door which faced the stairs 
almost before he realized that he had reached the last step. 
Directly he knocked at the door there was a scuffling sound, 
as though some one were moving quickly about the room, 
tidying it, poking things away out of sight; a drawer was 
opened and shut ; then, almost at the same moment, some one 
cried, “Come in,” and he turned the handle. 

Rose Hoyland stood in front of him ; she was so thin that 
she looked as though she might be the flat presentment of a 
woman cut out in paper and faintly tinted. Her long, rather 
horse-like face was sallow; her mouse-colored hair, swept 
aside from her high forehead, showed straight strands droop- 


282 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


ing over either ear; her tidy blouse, of some indeterminate 
color, with the collar neither quite high enough nor quite 
low enough, was pulled down so tight, that it emphasized 
the flatness of her bosom. She had always needed very 
careful dressing and hair-waving; now she not only had no 
money, she had no time or thought for such things ; every 
day was a scurrying, shuffling, undignified race against time. 

Another figure, bent over the fire, flung aside a mass of 
wavy dark hair and glanced up. It was Maisie, and McCabe’s 
first thought was, “What a chil.*, and how unchanged!” 

There, indeed, was the old Snow-white-and-Rose-red — 
as he used to call her, running all five words together. By 
some miracle of nature, shut indoors day after day as she 
was, her color and brilliance had come back to her, though 
she glowed now instead of sparkling as she had done. Her 
neck showed plump and white as milk, above the dull-red 
dressing-gown; her eyes were wide and bright. It seemed 
as though that evening, when she cried herself to sleep in her 
sister’s arms had, in some strange way, permanently relieved 
her, soaking her oppression out of her, clearing her skin, 
brightening her eyes ; as though Rose had actually become 
the scapegoat, the sin-bearer. 

She had interyals of sullenness, but they were incomplete, 
for her old desire to talk was always the stronger of the 
two. Then there were other periods of intense longing to 
see her lover once more, less acute because she was physically 
engrossed by other claims; of something like despair — and 
yet not quite despair, for underneath it lay the certainty that 
something must, and would, “turn up,” something wonderful 
and romantic; while over all hung that protective, smug 
self-satisfaction, the conviction that they are the only people 
to be considered, which comes to certain women in her 
state — ^the antithesis of that hysterical fear which oppresses 
others of her sex. 

“Why, Doctor McCabe !” cried Maisie, and flushed 
crimson, drawing her dressing-gown closer to her throat 
a little disturbed, but still delighted. How long it was since 
she had seen a man to speak to, how dull the interminable 
evenings ! 

Rose shot him an entreating glance as they all shook 
hands, and in a moment he had taken his cue — ^that the 
younger girl was not to know that she had written. 

“I got hold of your address, went to the other old hag 


THE LITTLE SOUL 283 

first, and she sent me on here. I say, youVe awfully com- 
fortable! How jolly to see you again, have a chance of 
talking over old times!’' He sat down, rubbing his hands 
in front of the fire — which blazed up as Rose added a meager 
shovelful of fresh coal — and smiled at Maisie. “Well, Snow- 
white-and-Rose-red, how goes the world with you, eh ?” 

“It’s awfully dull, Mac. And the cold ! I really do think 
Sheffield’s the coldest place in the world, and only the first 
week in November ! How I long to get abroad again — long 
for the sun, the South ! Do you remember when we were 
all at Mentone together? To think of it now!” 

“Remember ? Of course I do; and the nuisance you were, 
exacting little wretch ; never allowing your sister out of your 
sight, and with a perfect train of adorers — from sixteen to 
sixty !” 

“How ripping it all was 1” Maisie ran off into a rather 
shrill stream of laughter and reminiscence. What a child 
she was ! And yet, what a woman in the way in which she 
sat bent forward in front of the fire, obscuring her figure 
by the position in which she sat, the folds of her red dress- 
ing-gown — never once forgetting. 

She did not even rise when McCabe took his leave; she 
looked up at him, smiling. “I daren’t get up — this rag” — 
she indicated her dressing-gown — “is a remnant of my far- 
away childhood, far above my ankles, and I’ve no shoes or 
stockings on. You’d be shocked! But you must take the 
wish for the deed. Good-by, Mac — dear old Mac. It has 
been so awfully jolly seeing you again !” 

A sudden thou^t struck McCabe. “I’ll come back to- 
morrow when Rose is at work — an assignation, eh? We’ll 
have a lark together, if you can imagine such a thing with 
an old fogey like me. Lunch out, anyhow, and perhaps 
there’d be a matinee somewhere, eh ?” 

She blenched at that; it was piteous to see the t:hange 
in her, as though some hand had suddenly wiped the youth 
and color from her face ; the old, guarded look which came 
into her eyes, though her lips were still smiling. She had 
not counted upon this ; that was clear. 

“I’m afraid I shan’t be at home to-morrow — I’d thought 
of going into the country, with a friend. Mac, I’m awfully 
sorry, but — ” 

“Well, it’s not exactly the sort of weather for the country, 
is it? Anyhow, I’ll come on the chance.” He stooped down 


284 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


and raised her chin, turning her face so that he looked 
straight into her eyes. “We used to be great pals in the 
old days, Snow-white-and-Rose-red — don’t go back on me 
now. We can none of us afford to lose any friends in this 
saddened old world of ours.” 

“I’ll light you down the stairs ; the hall light’s always put 
out at ten,” said Rose, and lit a candle. “It’s the only 
punctual thing about the house !” 

She walked down the stairs in front of him, holding the 
candle high. In the hall, close against the front door, she 
spoke for the first time, apart from an occasional: “Can 
you see ?” or : “Mind that hole in the oil-cloth.” 

“I mustn’t stay — she’ll guess we’re talking about her. 
You will help us? Of course, you’ll help us?” 

“Not in the way you mean, Rose,” he answered gently. 
“You must know what the law is upon that subject.” 

“But you have — ” she whispered. 

“Never again. Rose, if you only knew what it meant!” 

She raised the candle higher and gazed at his face, her 
own gray and drawn : then lowered it and gave a deep sigh. 

“I won’t ask you; I’ve no right to ask you! Ah, well, 
it can’t be helped!” Her instant submission, her under- 
standing of his position; her patient re-shouldering of the 
burden touched him more deeply than any entreaties, how- 
ever desperate. 

“But I’ll do all I can; there’s a very great deal that I 
can do. Maisie must go through with it now; but there’s 
every sort of alleviation possible. Do you know the man’s 
name ?” 

“No — she says she doesn’t know it; but that’s not true.” 

“Or where he lives?” 

“No. But even she can’t tell me that — she speaks the 
truth there. Sometimes she seems to know so much of the 
world — ^then again, she’s such a cfiild — so transparent ! 
When I asked his name she would say nothing but ‘I don’t 
know — I tell you I don’t know.’ But when I asked where 
he lived, she began to cry, clung to me: ‘If only I knew!’ 
she said. ‘Oh, if only I knew !’ — like that.” 

“I must make her tell me his name when I come to- 
morrow.” 

“She won’t be in.” 

“Oh, yes, she will. She was scared, and lied, poor kid! 
But she’s shrewd enough to know that some one must be 


THE LITTLE SOUL 285 

told, that Fm really her friend. She’ll be in, trust her for 
that.” 

McCabe was right in his conjecture; and calling between 
eleven and twelve next morning, he found Maisie at home 
and dressed. The room was tidy, but by daylight its crowded 
air of poverty became more evident. It had an air of sour 
defiance ; as though saying, ‘‘Look at me, how ugly I am — 
a part of the life of these people, as fate, and themselves, 
and their forbears and this vaunted civilization of yours 
have made it : there is no concealment anywhere, no attempt 
at concealment.” 

The dancing firelight, the lamp, the red dressing-gown and 
flowing locks of the night before had given a glow to the 
picture. McCabe had been sincere in his exclamation, 
“You’re awfully comfortable here.” He now realized his 
mistake ; they were anything but comfortable ; neither in her 
dress nor her words did Maisie Hoyland make any pretense 
of anything of the sort ; any more than the room itself : that 
single room to which they were now reduced. 

“You know,” were her first words, as she shook hands 
with him, standing upright in the full daylight. “You 
know. If you didn’t know before, and I expect you did. 
Rose will have told you. You know, so where’s the good 
of pretending?” 

She spoke with extraordinary calm and character. The 
shame of her position had been brought home to her by 
this incursion of a fourth person; she felt it terribly, as 
McCabe realized. For weeks she had allowed her elder 
sister to shoulder the weight of the burden — Rose “would 
manage things somehow or other” — but the coming of this 
comparative stranger, his air of grave knowledge, stripped 
her of that sophism. It was “no good pretending.” Philip 
McCabe might be able to help her, and she needed help. 
Rose could hide away with her, scrape and save for the end : 
but she had no initiative ; and Maisie realized that she had 
been mentally drugging herself in her dependence upon her. 

McCabe put a few questions, then went straight to the 
crucial one. 

“Now, you must tell me his name. 

They had been sitting over the handful of fire, talking 
frankly as any doctor and patient ; but now the girl turned 
her head on one side, with a dull color in her cheeks, pleat- 
ing up a tiny fold of her skirt between two fingers. 


286 


THE LITTLE SOUL 

“I can’t do that — I absolutely refuse. Besides, what pos- 
sible difference would it make?” 

“It would help ; it’s got to help.” 

“You mean to get him to marry me ?” 

“Wouldn’t that be best, my child? Remember, you’ve 
not only got yourself to think of.” 

“It’s too late now — anyhow, it’s too late.” 

“I don’t think so.” There was silence for a moment or 
two ; then Maisie got up from her seat, moved over to the 
window. “I won’t tell you, that’s flat — I can’t see that it’s 
any business of yours, of anybody’s. It’s no good worry- 
ing me. It’s like Rose — always on and on ; but it’s no good 
— I won’t tell you, so there you are. If you like to go away 
and leave me to it. . . . Oh, well, I suppose I shall muddle 
through somehow — ” 

McCabe gave a little laugh, so cool and impersonal that 
she turned round and stared at him in amazement. “You’ve 
not got the right word. Snow-white. You don’t really mean 
that you won’t tell me his name, you mean that you can’t ; 
that it seems impossible to you — like a person who again 
and again approaches a jump, and then funks — can’t rise a 
step from the ground. It’s more than interesting to me, 
because I’ve been working on that sort of thing for months 
and months, in relation to shell-shock. It’s as old as the 
world ; an ancient, deep-rooted fear inherited down into an 
imagined inability — ^the fear of the spoken word, which goes 
back to unguessed-at ages. Look how you feel it, the way 
in which, the more you think over telling any one anything, 
the more impossible it becomes ; until you get so that you 
can’t bear the thought of hearing yourself say it. We see 
it everywhere: when a man’s dying, none of his relations, 
none of the people round him will mention the word Meath’ ; 
they talk of ‘passing away,’ of ‘the end.’ It comes in joy 
as well as sorrow — not ‘counting your chickens before they’re 
hatched’ is the modern variant of the dread of the census — • 
counting over the people, the flocks and herds, the spoken 
number. The people of Madagascar won’t let any word be 
used which bears the slightest resemblance to the name of 
their king, such words are wiped out of the language for the 
time being. The Ewe tribe in Southern Togo will give their 
children all sorts of repulsive nicknames, so that they’ll not 
be recognized : such as ‘Pig’s-trough,’ or ‘Muck-heap,’ poor 
little devils! Certain men of Toradja tribes must never, 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


287 


under pain of death, mention the name of their wives’ par- 
ents, uncles, cousins. It’s world-wide. Why, some of the 
people in the Congo^ — ” 

McCabe ran on and on, while Maisie, moving back to the 
hearth, stood with one arm upon the mantelpiece, staring 
down at him, her air of bewilderment giving way to one of 
aggrievance. What in the world was he talking about? 
What had all this to do with her and her affairs ? 

“If you really want to know,” she said at last, “ — though 
I can’t possibly imagine what his name has to do with you, 
or any one else” — even then she flushed crimson — “it’s — ” 
Once again she hesitated. McCabe’s talk was in the main 
that sort of by-play which a conjuror will use to distract the 
attention of his audience. But at the same time, he had 
been speaking from a deep knowledge of human nature, as 
Maisie, half frightened, realized when she did at last utter 
her lover’s name, almost under her breath ; that name, the 
withholding of which had become ingrown with the deepest, 
because the most primitive, part of her nature. 

And yet, once she was out with it, everything else came 
easier, and she was eager to talk of him ; all the more so 
because, while she realized Rose as antagonistic, McCabe 
took everything almost as a matter of course, showed no 
inclination to throw all the blame upon the man as a brute. 

As to McCabe himself, the revelation of unguessed-at 
character and powers of affection in the young girl were 
more than reassuring: here indeed was stuff of which some- 
thing might be made. One point in special touched and 
relieved Wm ; it was evident that she had no idea of trying 
to get rid of the child which was to be born to her ; maybe, 
she herself was too near the doll age, had seen too little of 
the world to realize how cruel it could be. At any rate, it 
seemed odd that, with her easier morality, she rose, in this 
at least, above her sister. Perhaps the difference lay in the 
fact that at the back of her mind Maisie still believed that 
the world was made for her and hers ; while Rose, in every 
thought, action, word, acknowledged herself as fearful and 
enslaved. 

Another reassuring element which slipped out through 
Maisie’s relieved stream of talk, was the fact that her lover 
was a mere boy, little older than herself. To McCabe’s 
mind unrestrained nature seemed so much more excusable 
in youth. It was only in later years that it hardened with 


288 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


deliberation into vice; the very young were seldom alto- 
gether cruel or depraved. 

After all, their last words were of Charles Hoyland. 
“Did you never think of telling your brother, asking his ad- 
vice, help?” 

“Never. Never, never, never!” The young girl drew 
herself up sharply. “Mac! Why, you know what Charles 
is — ^how absolutely up to the mark you must be for Charles 
to be bothered about you. Talk of a champagne standard! 
If Charles saw the Angel Gabriel, on the last day, with so 
much as a feather missing, he’d pass by on the other side : 
‘Not quite my sort. . . .” Oh, don’t you remember Mama, 
and ‘the sort of people worth knowing?’ — ‘people of a 
K.P.’ Of a sudden she was bitter and smiling. “I won- 
der what she’d say to me now: ‘The sort of person one 
doesn’t know!’ And Charles is just the same; you ought 
to know that, Mac. And you do know — ^you do know. Is 
there any one, even those women he used to go about with, 
who’d be mad enough to turn to Charles in any sort of 
trouble ?” 


CHAPTER VI 

People do not speak the truth when they declare that love 
is far-seeing, resourceful. A happy love dazzles, dazes: 
love and pain together bewilder and stupefy. In any case, 
the whole mind is bent upon the lover alone, isolated from 
all else that might help : trifles loom so large as to hide any 
larger interests at stake. 

If Maisie Hoyland had wished to discover the where- 
abouts of any casual friend, she was quite astute enough to 
have done so: her lover’s disappearance into space seemed 
so stupendously :^teful that it baffled her, deadened her, as 
though she had run her head against a wall : also, little as 
she realized this, her physical condition drained her of all 
initiative. In strange contradiction to her otherwise light 
nature, she was the instinctive mother : unless her lover were 
recalled to her by some feeling of shame — the difficulties of 
keeping up appearances, of life in general — ^the thought of 
the new life which was coming to her absorbed her. There 
was something fine in the amazement with which she met 
McCabe’s warning against any attempt to rid herself of the 
* consequence of her folly. As she was so much less con- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 289 

ventionally good than Rose, to that same extent was she 
better ; less dependable, more warmly human. 

^ Having the name, Philip McCabe found little difficulty in 
discovering the address of Maisie’s lover. The family was 
well known. The very first day, he heard that, though there 
was no one of the name in Sheffield, there had been a well- 
known firm in Manchester. A visit to Manchester gave him 
the actual address of the place where the one-time senior 
partner had settled when he retired and the business was 
converted into a company. 

The then manager who interviewed him, had been fore- 
man of the spinning-rooms in the old days, and could not 
speak too highly of his late employer : “There^s never been 
any one like him for hard work and grit, an’ fair-dealing: 
no moving him, no bending him once he had got the notion 
as ter what was the right thing ter do. But fair, through 
and through. It ain’t likely we’ll ever see his like again; 
they don’t breed ’em nowadays, that’s the fact.” 

‘Ts he still alive?” 

“No; dead some years. But they do say as how he’s left 
a daughter as is the dead spit o’ him in her ways. There’s 
a son, too, but he’s younger, delicate, too, in a sorter way, 
or so I’ve heard tell. Queer, ain’t it, how the strong, push- 
ing men o’ that sort often as not leave poorish sons an’ fine 
daughters? Seems sorterways as though they’d spent all 
the masculine strength o’ them on themselves.” 

The hatchet-faced man’s long chin went out, and his gaze 
was fixed; with his Northern thoroughness it seemed as 
though he were as set upon getting to the bottom of this 
question of race decay as he was upon the meaning of, the 
reason for, the perfecting of all else which he attempted. 

He spoke loudly : for even in the office where this inter- 
view took place, with its thick carpets, heavy mahogany 
furniture, its air of aloof dignity, ordered, and almost 
leisurely — ^because so well-ordered — Industry, the vital spirit 
of the whole place made itself manifest in the roar of ma- 
chinery, the whirr of hundreds of shuttles. It was like a 
man’s heart, pumping up blood, feeding brain and limbs; 
in some way performing its functions, however unevenly, 
through all his paroxysms of hate, love, fear. 

To McCabe the whole place was a revelation full of strange 
comfort. The mills were only working half-time, owing to 
the shortage of cotton, or so the manager said. But that 


290 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


meant less than nothing: the thing was going on and on. 
Nothing could really stop it. What did a day’s break here 
or there matter ? It was the significance of the thing which 
counted. All through the horrors of the war, those wild re- 
treats, those famished, frozen days and nights, those parched 
and fever-stricken heats, those unimaginable agonies of mil- 
lions of men, aye, and women, too, this had gone on — un- 
changing as the smooth, indiiferent motions of those dark 
sisters who throw and twist and cut the thread of Life. 

The whole of Manchester, with its roar and rattle, brought 
to McCabe the same strange s^nse of comfort. The war was 
drawing very near to its end. With so awful a sense of loss 
and upheaval, any real elation or triumph was out of the 
question ; at least, for men like himself, with such abiding 
memories. The only real hope remaining for them was to 
be found in holding fast to the commonplaces of life. With 
a nation as with an individual, it was all very well for a 
man to lament his loss of youth and love, with its passionate 
delusion, its pride ; let him be thankful that his arteries were 
still clear, his heart beating, his brain working. So long as 
that went on, so long as a place like this hummed and stirred, 
the country had life, at least, to its credit. 

McCabe went back to Sheffield that night strangely cheered. 
He had found fresh lodgings for the sisters, and they were 
already moved into them. Rose had dropped back to her 
old habit of acquiescence; it might almost be said of her, 
as of John Stuart Mill’s wife, that there was her one talent. 
Even to herself those first few months in Sheffield — when 
she lived alone and decisively, felt her own will, her in- 
dependence, something which was her one small version of 
ambition, pushing itself to life, like a slender, sturdy sprout 
of young wheat — seemed very far away. For that short 
period she had lived more actively than she would ever live 
again. Her very love for McCabe was an acquiescent resig- 
nation, so little vital, that she realized his absorption in 
her sister’s case without a sifigle pang. He needed her, and 
that was enough; though it were only as a stand-by, a 
fellow-support for Maisie. Even the one thing that she had 
really held to, her financial independence, gave way beneath 
McCabe’s insistence that it would be the rankest selfishness 
on her part if he were not allowed to help. 

He did not mention his expedition to Manchester ; it was 
better not, until he was quite certain; and neither of the 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


291 


girls asked any question. What agonies of shame and reti- 
cence Rose had overcome in writing to him, and worse, far 
worse, in speaking to him on her sister’s behalf, she alone 
knew. She could never mention it again, never — never — 
never. Yes, here at least, was something above acquiescence ; 
she was almost passionate in her determined shrinking from 
the subject. Maisie must be cared for, shielded from any 
shock or over-fatigue : a remote illness must be prepared 
for : in her own room at night Rose knitted tiny garments 
of soft white wool — it was Maisie, fo’* all her frivolity, who 
could cut out, actually put together in new shape, the fine 
lawn and lace of her own garments — out the actual reason 
for it all must never be so much as mentioned. She could 
not bear to think that the man who was responsible for 
all this trouble might be found, brought to book: in her 
almost adamantine Early Victorianism she endeavored to 
shut her eyes to his very existence. It was a priesthood, 
a people, composed of such natures as Rose Hoyland, who 
first made the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception pos- 
sible. 

As for Maisie, though she realized what McCabe had been 
attempting, she asked no questions. She was protecting 
herself against disappointment, conscious — ^to the depths of 
her instinctive, necessary selfishness — that this was far more 
important than that “Take care” of poor old Rose’s; with 
a hand to her arm whenever the tram started suddenly, or 
there was a press of traffic crossing the road. 

But for all that, something in McCabe’s lightened expres- 
sion raised her from her engrossment, quickened a fresh 
hope. At any rate, she had reshifted a part of her burden 
on to his shoulders, and she sprang more upright with this 
relief, quite unembarrassed by an indebtedness which flat- 
tened her sister back to oblivion. 

McCabe took them both out to supper at a restaurant that 
evening, and all through supper and on the way back to 
their lodgings, Maisie was brilliant and gay — ^the old Rose- 
red-and-Snow-white. Her cheeks were like carnations, her 
brilliant eyes, all the more noticeable for the dark shadow 
which lay beneath them, wide with excitement. She was 
wearing the blue dress of which her lover had disapproved, 
but it would have been a captious man, indeed, who had any 
fault to find with her upon this special evening. 

“Hush, Maisie, you’re fey !” was Rose’s dulled reproach. 


292 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


as she sat crumbling her bread, scarcely able to bear the 
glances of the other people in the restaurant; feeling out of 
place, shamed. Not ashamed of her sister, but actually 
shamed. Her head was bent; the short ends of her soft, 
fair hair — which her mother had insisted upon being daily 
crisped with curling-irons — fell in wisps at the nape of her 
neck; her chest was drawn together, her blouse hunched 
over the shoulder at the back, showing in the front two 
sharp horizontal creases from under each arm-pit. 

Maisie’s chatter, Maisie^s brilliant beauty, which attracted 
so much attention even in the quiet little place that McCabe 
had purposely chosen, was a martyrdom to Rose. She did 
not put it to herself that because Maisie had been wicked 
she ought to be unhappy : she never even thought of it ; had 
she done so she would have remembered that the world 
was not like that; she was simply crucified for her: every 
curious glance a nail. 

She herself had summoned McCabe, and this alone was 
the ultimate martyrdom of self : the added sum of Maisie’s 
shame weighing upon her shoulders was augmented almost 
beyond endurance by his presence, the picture of what he 
might be thinking. 

Once when Maisie made some simple girlish jest which set 
him laughing, she wondered why she should be the one to 
suffer, crushed to earth. 

“Trust Maisie to get off scot-free. She always has, al- 
ways will do.” It was the very first time such a thought 
had come to her. Doubtless Maisie must bear her own 
physical agony when the time came; but could any mere 
bodily pain be as bad as this? 

“She doesn’t feel anything; she has no shame!” she 
thought again; when, just by chance, her younger sister 
preceded her down the long room — ^innumerable Maisies, 
tall and still slender beneath the loose evening cloak, a suc- 
cession of dark heads, rosy cheeks and long, slender necks, 
processing through the mirrors which lined either side of the 
restaurant; flashing victoriously as a waving flag above 
the dull, heavy shoulders, dowdy heads of the people, who 
were still seated at the tables ; glancing up at her, following 
her with their eyes as she passed. 

“Walking on in front like that! As if she was already 
married — for all the world as if she was married!” 

How many, how small and subtle are the things for which 


THE LITTLE SOUL 293 

women envy each other ! Those soft little dark curls at the 
nape of Maisie’s neck, now ! 

Rose found herself wondering over them in bed that night, 
during the long hours which passed before she slept. She 
had never even thought of them before, but quite suddenly 
she felt that here was something almost more than she could 
bear; a superfluity, a wantonness in the way of advantage. 

And Maisie had walked out of the restaurant first. There 
had seemed to be nothing which Rose would grudge her sis- 
ter, but — Oh, well, this dignity of seniority was the only 
advantage to which she could lay claim. It meant a great 
deal to her, and she was almost incredibly touchy about it; 
for the less we have the more we hoard our little mite. 

‘‘She has no feeling,” she told herself again. But she had 
not seen Maisie, when — ^back at their new lodgings, going 
into the bedroom to remove her hat and coat, fold away her 
gloves and veil — she and McCabe were left alone in the 
sitting-room. 

Maisie — standing by the fire and gazing down into it: 
stooping for the poker, and drawing together the half-burnt 
fragments of coal — was silent for a minute or two; then she 
straightened herself and turned to McCabe, fixing him with 
a question that she could no longer resist ; a question which 
— ^though she still refrained from putting it into words — 
was so plainly expressed in her glance, that quite involun- 
tarily he answered it : 

“Yes ; and I’m going to-morrow.” 

Again there was silence : then Maisie moved towards him, 
laid her hand upon his arm, plucked at the lapel of his coat, 
then patted it smooth in a coaxing way she had. 

“If you see — see him, don’t be hard, Mac, dear; don’t be 
cross and hard. It was my fault just as much as his. I — • 
Mac, he’s only a boy — poor old kid !” 

Her eyes were dim. She thought of her lover, not as he 
had been when he had fisited her last — hard and contemp- 
tuous — ^but as he was that day when she saw him : 

“Alone and palely loitering — 

Ah, yes, those were the words. At the thought of his 
helpless bewilderment and pain, her heart yearned towards 
him : there was a chill ache in the breast, against which she 
would have given worlds to draw his head: holding him 
close : rocking him, comforting — poor kid I 


294 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


She was laughing again when her sister reappeared; but 
the look he had caught upon her face was still in McCabe’s 
mind when he set out upon his distasteful journey next 
morning. 

That maternal instinct, embracing the lover as well as the 
child, was a devilishly odd, elusive thing: one never knew 
where one would meet it or where one would miss it. 

Sometimes in the most cow-like women it was non-ex- 
istent; and then, to think of the queer little sprats he had 
seen absolutely devoured by it ! 


CHAPTER VII 

On his journey up to Sheffield, McCabe had seen some- 
thing of the country through which he passed next day, on 
his way from the station to the address given him. 

At that time, however, the mist-laden dusk had been 
thickening, and he gathered little beyond the impression of 
a landscape almost incredibly rugged and broken, strangely 
split and distorted, harsh, aggressive. It was not until later 
that he realized the sort of loveableness which one finds 
in bright, dark eyes beneath an overhanging forehead, harsh, 
beetled brows. 

It was eleven o’clock when he left the ugly little station : 
passed through the stark gray town, and, even before he was 
out of it, started to climb a long road which he could follow 
with his eyes, winding up and up for miles, until it was lost in 
a belt of trees which fringed the futhermost top of the hill. 

Though it was the second week in October, crops of barley 
and oats were still uncarried, with a few old men laboring 
among them : laying down their sickles and stooping every 
moment or so to gather together the shocks: tying them 
with swathes of straw. 

In the lower corner of one precipitous field, running up to 
the sky-line, an ancient hunchback and meager young boy 
toiled together; never so much as lifting their heads, as 
though they lacked courage to face the task before them: 
an epitome of war. 

As McCabe mounted a volley of blasting shook the valley 
beneath him. 

There was not a breath of wind — ^though the air v/as dank 
and cold, biting to the bone : no sound save the far-off bleat- 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


295 


ing of sheep, the sharp bark of a dog, those occasional deaf- 
ening roars echoing and re-echoing amid the hills, and up 
and down the valleys — narrow and precipitous, more fissures 
than valleys — which, as he rose, stretched out like dark 
fingers beneath him. 

To McCabe's mind the whole countryside gave an im- 
pression, despite the blasting, of an immense calm strength, 
a quiet that went far too deep for any outward sound to 
touch it. It was altogether apart — as a god — ^terrible and 
yet not menacing: a master of men: hard, grasping: neither 
benign nor comforting, and yet just: a god which, once this 
was acknowledged, with its clearly-defined boundary to 
man's presumption, might be leaned upon, sheltered under. 
A country to love or to hate, never to merely like. 

There were sparse bunches of red berries still remaining 
on the leafless mountain ashes, a coquetry as superficial as 
a flower behind the ear of a giant. For the rest, it was all 
of shades of gray : grayish-green grass, gray rocks, verging 
to blackness, gray sky ; and, as McCabe mounted, gray-white 
mist; in rolling masses beneath him, gossamer-like around 
him. His hair and lashes were wet, his clothes sparkling 
with tiny drops : he was possessed by such a feeling of clean- 
liness as he had never known. It was as though he were 
washed through and through, inside and out. 

An old, yellowish man was breaking a heap of yellowish 
stones on the far top of the hill. McCabe felt sure that he 
must have climbed a good dozen miles, and yet at the station 
they had said six. He took off his cap and wiped his fore- 
head, as he inquired the way. 

Only another mile or so, dipping down yonder. It was 
some time before the old man could catch the question : he 
came close to McCabe, putting his hand behind his ear, 
opening his mouth, with its fringe of yellowish-white hair, as 
wide as possible. 

Having answered the stranger’s question, he leant his 
huge shoulder against him, and began to talk: ‘‘Whiles," 
he broke stones and “whiles" he was “put away," on account 
of something “danged queer" in his head. 

“Swellin' an’ swellin’ fit ter busst. There Oi be some 
days thinkin’ as ’ow the Lord’s good an’ it’s fine ter be alive 
up among o’ these 'ere quiet hills, and the beasts an’ all: 
and Oi willin’ ter go on just breakin' stones an' breakin’ 
stones, day in an' day out, till ’E do see fit ter call Oi. Then, 


296 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


fur no reason as Oi can see, Oi do cum over that gait as Oi 
feels as ’ow I must be bashing some’un or other. All the 
blood boilin’ up in me, thick in my eyes the way as Oi can’t 
see folk cornin’ along the road, but they looks all gory-red : 
settin’ me thinking ’ow they’d be supposin’ Oi was ter taeke 
’em an’ break their cops in bits, same as these ’ere stones. 
It’s plain then the way as Oi do be goin’, Bible plain ; an’ I 
sez ter my daughter, Oi sez, sez Oi : !Oi’m off.’ ’Er don’t 
not ask no questions at that, ’er dursn’t, mind yer — not fur 
’er life ’er dursn’t: but ’er does up me bits o’ traps an’ off 
Oi goes ter ’sylum down away yonder.” He jerked a vague 
thumb. “The doctor there, ’e knows Oi, ’e do, and a main 
pleasant gentleman ’e do be. ‘Cum away in,’ ’e says, 
‘an’ welcome, too.’ And in Oi goes, an’ there Oi do bide 
until this ’ere takin’ do be overpast — All on account o’ 
that there danged war it be, or so they do say.” 

“But surely you’ve not been in the war ?” 

“Nay, nay, maister. But, look ’ee ’ere. The war do be 
in Oi — in Oi” — he smote his chest, still so wide between 
the bowed shoulders, like some great cave but half fallen in 
— “it be in Oi — that’s what it do be: all our fine young 
fellows maimed and dyin’ ; all the slayin’ ; all the squawking 
out an’ pain, the fearsome pains o’ ’Ell — All the wild ways 
o’ the world, bent on killin’, an’ on naught else, loike ter a 
ravening lion. Past all bearin’ an’ reason — it do’ be in Oi, in 
Oi! Eh, dearie me, wid my poor ’ead the way it do be — * 
an’ the very sky aw bloody red at sunrise an’ sundown — 
past all bearin’ it do be, maister 1” 

“The war do be in Oi.” How horribly true it was for 
many; and would be, too, for another generation, at least, 
thought McCabe, moving down the incline into a more ur- 
bane and sheltered region ; turning in at the open gate and up 
the rough drive leading to the long, low house, which a 
group of urchins had indicated to him as the one of which 
he was in search. 

There were onions laid out to dry upon pieces of sacking 
on the stone seats at either side of the porch. The door 
was open, and three dogs lay dozing in front of the wood 
fire— a nondescript yellow bitch; a half-grown mongrel, 
with a waving tail, dragging it all sideways — like a ship that 
is over-engined — and a solemn Aberdeen — which got up and 
came out to meet him: sampled with their noses such por- 
tions of his person as they could reach, and then, passing 


THE LITTLE SOUL 297 

him as one of their own sort, thrust cold, wet muzzles into 
his palm. 

An elderly woman hurried across the hall, wiping water- 
sodden hands upon a large white apron. 

“Well !” It was an odd greeting, or rather interrogation. 
To McCabe’s mind it seemed as though her strong, spare 
form, her face with its high cheekbones — its network of fine 
red veins, tight, wistful mouth, small, light-gray eyes, spun 
round with innumerable wrinkles — were somehow charac- 
teristic of the austerity of that countryside to which she so 
evidently belonged. 

For a moment or so she stood on guard, piercing him with 
her gaze, weighing him up. When he said, “I want tO' see 
Mr. Anthony Clayton,” it struck him that a quick shade of 
fear ran like the shadow of a passing cloud across her face, 
but her glance never wavered. 

It seemed, however, that searching, remorseless and un- 
biased, into the very depths of the stranger’s nature — his 
past and present — she found something which she instinc- 
tively trusted, for she loosed her hand from the door which 
she had barred, standing well across the threshold. 

“Cum away in, Oi’ll call the lad.” 

Once inside, she again hesitated, then glanced round the 
hall. There was a narrow staircase running straight up out 
of it; to the side of the stair, almost under them, was a 
baize door ; to the left a door ; to the right a wide passage, 
which evidently led to other rooms, and to the left of this 
yet another door. The whole place was a series of eyes and 
ears. 

“It’s — ^well, private business,” said McCabe, and she 
nodded sharply ; then opened the door immediately to .the 
left of the stone-flagged passage and showed him into a long 
drawing-room, with pale chintz-covered furniture: an air 
of eternal waiting, a deathlike resignation to its own lone- 
liness, the stepmother-like care that was accorded to it. 

She pulled up the blinds, rearranged a chair or so ; moved 
towards the door, and then turned and looked at him. Her 
whole face was gathered up into innumerable wrinkles, but- 
toned at the mouth; her eyes, strained and shining, met 
McCabe’s once more. She hesitated for a moment, and then 
put up one rough hand to her mouth, which had begun to 
twitch, wryly. 

“Mind yer, Vs nowt but a lad,” she said, an agony of 


298 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


appeal in her voice, and, turning, left the room, moving 
with the swiftness of a beetle, barely raising her feet from 
the floor. 

McCabe walked over to the window and looked out. 
There were a few frost-wilted chrysanthemums, a rough 
strip of lawn; but beyond that nothing, Tor the mist had 
rolled up from the valleys and gathered like a gray wall 
around the house. 

The air was perfectly still, the house silent. The dogs 
had returned to their own fireside, but they were not resting. 
McCabe could see them through the open door: the two 
elders sitting upright, with lifted chin, the puppy glancing 
uneasily from one to another, waving its tail. 

A girl in a rough, brown tweed coat and skirt passed the 
window. McCabe heard her scraping her boots at the door ; 
then the woman who had admitted him scurried across the 
hall. There was a low-voiced confab, and a moment later 
Diana Clayton entered the room in which he stood 
waiting. 

She had removed her hat ; the hair round her ears, across 
her forehead and at the nape of her neck, her eyebrows 
and thick, short lashes, were glistening with moisture as 
McCabe’s had been. 

As she came straight into the room and shut the door 
behind her, his first thought was that he had never seen 
any one so perfectly self-possessed, or rather, oblivious of 
self ; not from any cocksureness, but from a deep engross- 
ment in something apart from all personal feeling. 

Her hair, flattened back from her forehead by her hat, 
showed a brow low and broad, white as a child’s : her eyes, 
between the reddish-brown lashes, a shade brighter than her 
hair, were dark blue, steady as a sailor’s ; rather broadly-built 
and deep-breasted, she moved with a balanced sureness and 
poise. Although he realized that she was still unmarried, 
McCabe’s passing idea of her as a girl had gone in a moment. 
She was a woman, and, more than this, all that womankind 
may mean to a wanderer — England, home, sureness, rest. 

At one side of her mouth there was a dimple. It was in- 
congruous, and yet he was grateful for the feeling it gave 
him. It seemed like a sort of flag of truce — something at 
which he might laugh, the excuse for a possible teasing 
tenderness. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 299 

*‘You wanted to see Anthony?” she said, and her voice 
matched her presence — low-pitched and steady. 

“Yes.” 

“He isn't dressed — he was late last night, but he’s coming.” 
It was noticeable that she did not ask McCabe to sit down ; 
that from the beginning there was no sort of pretense 
between them : at one with the very aspect of the country, 
the house, the old servant, she seemed to be prepared for 
something inevitable in the way of trouble — if not tragedy. 
“My brother’s not yet of age — I’m his guardian, responsible 
for everything; if there’s anything wrong — ” 

“I’m afraid there is. It’s a difficult thing to speak of — 
I don’t know if I ought — ^to a woman — ” 

“If it’s difficult to speak of to a woman, then it’s con- 
nected with a woman ?” 

There was a North-country shrewdnes*s in this question, 
her grave, direct glance. She might be simple, but it was 
certain that she was no fool. 

“Yes.” 

“Doctor McCabe — I think that is what Nanny said — ” 
She hesitated a moment, then, as McCabe bowed, went on : 
“I am altogether responsible for my brother. We have 
always been a very great deal to each other, he and my 
mother and myself; but somehow I’ve lost his confidence 
— failed him. I know that there has been” — she hesitated 
and flushed crimson — “some change in him. It’s not that 
he’s grown up” — she paused again, her steady gaze full 
upon him ; then, quite suddenly, as it seemed, she gave him 
her confidence — “not grown up, no more of a man, but 
aged — oh, terribly aged ! And if I knew what it was, if only 
I knew — if you could tell me, I might do something. As it 
is, it is all so vague, so — dreadful.” 

McCabe moved to one. of the windows and stood staring 
out. The mist had closed up, like a besieging army : pressing 
forward, noiseless, persistent, it surrounded them. 

From somewhere far away in the house the faint notes 
of a flute floated down upon the still air. 

An odd feeling came to him, that though he and this 
steady-eyed girl were drawn apart from the rest of the world 
— with that amazing sense of intimacy which comes in the 
first moment of meeting, or not at all — they were cast^ for 
nothing more than the principal chorus in some pre-ordained 


soo 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


drama, in which the bitter-sweet serving-woman, the distant 
flute-player, were no more than other auxiliaries. Nay, 
the flute itself was a prelude, the close-pressed mist not a 
curtain — certainly not an army, as he had first thought — so 
much as a pale audience: critical, watchful: just too patient 
for antagonism. 

The bareness of the chill room, with no sign of familiar 
occupation, strengthened this impression. Here was all 
the austerity of a Greek stage; the faintly-tinted walls with 
their faded water-colors, counted for nothing, impeded 
nothing; the amphitheater of the hills constituted the true 
setting. 

“There are two girls in Sheffield, the sisters of an old 
friend of mine,’’ began McCabe slowly. “One of them, the 
younger, is the merest child. I. seems that she had a lover 
of whom no one knew anything. They have been very poor, 
earning their own living, totally unprotected — ” He broke 
off; the whole thing seemed so de-humanized by telling; 
it was almost impossible to believe that it was Maisie of 
whom he spoke. 

“Yes !” It was the merest breath, but it helped him. 

“She has not seen anything of him for a long time; he 
has left her.” McCabe had realized a sort of bald monotony 
in his tone, but it broke now, roughly, passionately. “She 
is the merest child, I tell you ! the prettiest creature !” 

“Yes — and you mean — my brother — ” 

“Oh, but surely there is some one older — more respon- 
sible!” McCabe gave a rough gesture of despair, impa- 
tience. 

“I am responsible ; there is no one else.” 

“Well — as you will have it” — if he had not spoken brutally, 
he felt that he could not have spoken at all — “She is a child, 
I tell you, the merest child, and yet — and yet, within a few 
months she will be a mother.” 

“And Anthony—?” 

“Yes. Oh, good God! to think — !” 

“A moment — ^he — ” 

She broke off ; for the first time her eyes, heavy with pain, 
turned from McCabe. There was a hesitating hand upon the 
door ; a pause ; then it opened — not very wide — and a tall boy 
entered the room ; closed it, advanced a few steps, and stood 
glancing from his sister to the stranger, who had turned with 
her; then back to his sister, biting his lip, frowning. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


301 


"You’re Anthony Clayton!” McCabe’s tone was harsh, 
but some of the righteous anger with which he had been 
charged was gone. Miss Clayton had been. right: this boy 
was not grown up, though in some strange way he was — yes, 
he was, actually, old. It was as though youth had been 
quite prematurely drained out of him : nothing save the dregs 
of life, of unutterable memories, left in its place. The out- 
ward appearance of him was like some clean surface 
scrawled over with lewd words, wantonly defaced. His blue 
eyes were sullen, yet strangely pitiful. His mouth quivered 
like a child’s, and yet there were plain lines of dissipation, 
still faint because they were so fresh. He was very tall 
and thin; his rough tweed suit hung loosely to his im- 
mature figure. 

As he did not stir from the door, his sister moved a step 
towards him, put out one hand, then drew it back and stood 
silent between the two men. 

"There is a young girl in Sheffield” — McCabe’s tone was 
set, and he spoke slowly, with difficulty; the whole thing 
was too horrible, remembering Maisie as he had seen her 
sitting by the fire in her red dressing-gown, her curly hair 
about her shoulders — "a girl — a lady — who has been brought 
up in the midst of every sort of refinement, who knows — or, 
rather, knew — nothing of the world, a beautiful girl, as in- 
nocent — Oh, but you know all that, better than any one 1” 
he broke off. Once more his anger was working within him, 
but it was the outcome of a desperate exasperation more 
than anything else. He would like to have shaken the boy, 
shaken out of him — what — Well, what? — unless it were 
that intangible something which, even then, he felt as alien, 
responsible for the suddenly assured hard stare, the sneer. 

"Is one allowed to ask what in the world you’re talking 
about?” 

"As if you didn’t know! My God! for you to stand 
there and ask me that, you young devil, you! Weren’t 
there enough women in the world already spoilt, that you 
couldn’t leave her alone? Maisie — ” He. took a step for- 
ward, almost threatening — the old McCabe, as fiercely par- 
tisan as ever — then paused, conscious of an amazing change 
in the boy’s expression, his whole face, the very pose of his 
body. 

"Maisie!” he breathed; then again: "Maisie?” It was 
like a slate and some one with a sponge; he flushed as 


802 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


delicately as a girl, his eyes were limpid. “He’s only a 
kid” — McCabe remembered that. All the ugly contempt 
and sullenness was gone; and yet — and somehow this was 
more extraordinary than anything else — there was no hint 
of shame, rather a sort of tenderness ; above all else, an air 
of bewilderment, a half-frowning, half-smiling retrospection : 
that sort of drawing-back into his own mind to be seen in 
one who catches something of the aroma, the teasing mem- 
ory, of a first love. 

“Maisie ?” he repeated again. 

“Yes, Maisie Hoyland.” McCabe’s tone was patient, 
gentle; all the interest of the physician was alert. Here 
was something which he could not account for. As he 
spoke, Diana Clayton turned and gave him a look of which 
he could make nothing; for a moment it seemed to him 
that her mouth was framing the name “Hoyland!” But 
she did not speak. 

Then, quite suddenly, her brother’s expression changed. 
It was as though his real character, personality — call it what 
you will — was reversed, the simple boyishness which McCabe 
realized as his true self snatched back out of sight. 

It was like a scene shown by a magic-lantern, in which the 
operator places the wrong slide into the frame; then — 
realizing his mistake almost before it is done — tweaks it 
away so quickly that it gives nothing more than a fleeting 
impression of something half guessed at. 

He turned away from under McCabe’s eyes with a harsh 
laugh, and slouched over to the window, with his hands high 
in his hip pockets, his shoulders hunched. 

“You’ve got it there, whoever you may be. Hoyland! 
I owed him that much, anyhow. His own sister, too! 
That’s the cream of the whole thing. After all, it was he 
who first showed me life!” 

“Life! You call it life! To ruin a young girl like that. 
You unspeakable young blackguard, you — !” 

“Oh, well, what else is it? Life — all a sort of carnage, 
preying upon each other. But, of course, if you’re in love 
with the young lady yourself, I’m quite ready to relinquish 
my claim. As it was. I’d half forgotten — forgotten — ” 
McCabe, who could catch nothing more than his side face, 
saw him frown, put up one hand to his mouth, while his 
insolent tone broke, was slurred as though he were but half 
sure of his part. There was a moment’s silence, then he 


THE LITTLE SOUL 303 

swung round, almost savagely, exasperated as McCabe him- 
self. 

“Damn it all, what do you mean? — cornin’ here remind- 
ing me, when I’d almost forgotten — half forgotten ? Maisie 
— Maisie — so devilishly pretty, so — so — ” 

“You can’t deny that you’re the father of the child — 
even you, callous, hardened !” 

If McCabe had not spoken roughly, loudly, he could not 
have spoken at all. All the while, he knew that the real 
Anthony Clayton was neither indifferent nor callous; but 
the whole thing was like a dream in which the dreamer hears 
himself shouting at the top of his voice. He was irritated 
beyond bearing by his own lack of understanding, by having 
to say such things with the boy’s sister standing there, silent, 
between them. 

The door opened again, and Mrs. Cla}don entered the 
room. For a moment she hesitated, then with the unswerv- 
ing directness of the blind moved across the room to her 
son’s side, laid her hand upon his arm. 

McCabe’s confusion and bewilderment grew; he felt 
meshed round, with something intangible, far removed from 
real life; guilty, drawn into an affair which had nothing 
whatever to do with him. 

Despite the fact that the boy shrugged away from his 
mother’s hand, turned, staring out of the window, there 
was something strangely united about the family. Of 
course, it was rank nonsense to have any idea of treading 
upon holy ground, with the memory of Maisie Hoyland, and 
yet that was the thought which came to him. 

The only person who seemed quite real, apart from him- 
self, was Diana Clayton — ^grave, puzzled. The other two 
were mere shadows in the dim room, with the fog pressing 
in at the windows, filming the atmosphere. 

Through the open door McCabe could see the dogs, turned 
towards them now ; even the puppy motionless, bolt upright ; 
while the old servant, with no pretense at concealment, 
stood on guard, watchful, listening. 

There was a silence which, for the life of him, McCabe 
could not have broken. Then Diana began to speak, putting 
what McCabe had stammered over into words almost Bibli- 
cal in their directness. 

She made no effort to palliate or excuse; there was no 
sign of doubting his word; she did not even blame her 


304j the little SOUL 

brother, blame the girl — any one. She was very pale, but 
her level glance moved calmly between the three of them. 

“And her name?” McCabe had been sure of some sort 
of outcry from the mother — amazement at, denial of, what 
her daughter told her. But to his astonishment there was 
nothing more than this calm — “And her name?” What, 
by all that was holy, could a name matter at this juncture ? 
It was scarcely even a question : there was something in 
the lift of the blind woman’s head, as though she knew it 
already, as though it were the keystone to some fabric slowly 
building up in her own brain ; while ov^r and above this 
there was a meaning to which he missed the clew in the 
girl’s glance, in the tone in which she repeated it : 

“Maisie Hoyland.” 

“Wait.” As Mrs. Clayton put up a hand, for some reason 
or other McCabe’s glance was drawn to the old servant. 
He saw her turn her head, while her look of half-scornful 
incredulity changed to one of abhorrence; she moved back 
a little, pulled her large white apron on one side, while the 
dogs ba^ed away from the hearth. 

Once again the feeling as though, apart from the boy, they 
were supernumeraries in some incredible drama flashed 
over McCabe. 

Here, as he felt certain — ^though he could not have said 
why — was the principal. The old servant seemed to hang 
for ages, rigid in her aversion, and yet it could not have been 
more than a moment before Charles Hoyland stumbled across 
the dim hall, entered the room. 

“That’s why she was so astonished!” thought McCabe, 
with the memory of Diana’s expression when he had men- 
tioned Maisie’s name ; then : “Good God, what’s the fellow 
done to himself?” 

His trained senses were alert in a moment. Hoyland 
looked horribly ill: his eyes were dazed, his every move- 
ment strained and jerky; his forehead wet with sweat. 
“It looks like — ” The thought broke off in horror. The 
suspicion was such that he hesitated to formulate it, even 
to himself ; besides, there was no telling, at the first dance 
like that. ^ 

Hoyland’s gaze had made straight for Diana, and hung 
upon her with strained entreaty : his hands went out to her 
in a strangely awkward gesture. His expression, the way 
in which he held himself, were so alien to the man whom 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


305 


McCabe had known that a doubt swept through his mind. 
Was this really Charles Hoyland? He knew that it was — 
well, to the common acceptance ; and yet what was it that 
really constituted a man’s self, his personality? If it was 
what one was accustomed to, that was gone. He was as 
little like what he had always known of him as a Guy Fawkes 
is like the figure which it represents. There was no sign of 
the smooth suavity, the curves, the cool self-confidence; 
whatever it might be that had blown him out, filled him, 
was gone; he was pricked, flaccid, despite those strange 
starts of physical rigidity. 

“Doctor McCabe — ” began Diana, and raising his blood- 
shot eyes, his head still bent, Hoyland ran his glance round 
them. For a moment McCabe’s eyes held his, uneasy, 
shifting; then -they dragged themselves back to Diana. 

His chin jerked, his limbs twitched. McCabe saw him 
clench his hand, in the endeavor to keep quiet, this man 
who had been so imperturbable. The whole thing was too 
frightful; he might have been a marionette upon a piece 
of elastic, or the thief embracing his cross. 

“Hoyland,” McCabe heard himself speaking more loudly 
than usual, with exaggerated plainness. It seemed as though 
he were addressing the other man from a distance, as though 
he were outside the ordinary pitch of voice, focus of sight. 

“I want to speak to you about your sister — Maisie. If we 
were alone — ” 

He had expected the other man’s attention to turn to him 
at this, made sure that he would lead him apart — Hoyland, 
who had so abhorred any exposure, washing of dirty linen 
in public. But here again was a change. 

“Auch!” He made an impatient gesture, as though to- 
brush McCabe on one side, as if nothing he could say or do 
was of the slightest importance. He had moved up quite 
close to Diana, and as she stepped back, put out one hand 
with a pawing gesture. 

“Diana — there’s something — something — I’m damnably ill. 
You must help me, you know — look, now, I — I— -horrible — 
scared — I can’t — can’t — ” There were tears in his eyes and 
voice ; he broke off, blubbering. 

“Look here, Hoyland.” McCabe put a hand upon his 
shoulder, twisting him round. His manner to the girl, the 
way in which he touched her, nauseated him so that the 
calm aloofness of the physician, his amazement and pity, 


306 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


were lost in the feeling with which one regards that which 
is unhuman, eminently disgusting. 

“Fve got something to tell you. Do you hear what I 
say? Will you listen to me? I come from your sisters. I 
suppose you knew they were in Sheffield, quite near to you, 
alone and miserably poor?” 

“What the devil — ?” Hoyland shrugged his shoulder 
petulantly aside. 

“Come, now, did you or didn't you?” McCabe went 
straight to his point. After all, there could be no question 
of greeting, smoothing the way, drawing the other man 
apart. They were all too much in it, too inexplicably tangled, 
for any such niceties. The whole thing was, already, so 
apart from real life, and yet so inevitable, that his whilom 
friend’s presence failed to surprise him. Even his changed 
appearance slipped into a sort of fitness. 

It was all like a puzzle in which the last fragment makes 
the whole thing complete, set as it was meant to be. 

“How could I know!” retorted Hoyland fretfully. Once 
again he made that gesture as though to brush the other 
man, his tiresome, trivial question aside. Nothing and no- 
body on earth mattered save the remnant still remaining of 
himself — that was all, that was life ; even Diana only counted 
as a part of himself, necessary to him. He was like some 
wild animal at bay — cringing, fearful, and yet ready to snap. 
All the smooth veneer, so deeply inlaid that it had seemed 
part of himself — that work of art, matured and perfected 
through generations to the appearance of a perfectly civilized 
man, shaved down and then super-added to — was rent. 
Drunk or in love, his calm cynicism had held ; but here was 
something out of the very depths, bestial and cowardly. 

“Your mother died and left them alone, practically pen- 
niless,” went on McCabe. “Oh, I’m not telling you — ^you 
know already; but these others, so deeply involved, this 
unhappy boy! They appealed to you, at least Rose did — 
perhaps the other knew you better. But you’d do nothing 
to help; you disappeared, you didn’t even let them know 
where you were. You didn’t care what became of them, 
though you knew well enough — who better? — the sort of 
temptation such girls were likely to be exposed to. A week 
or so ago Rose wrote to me.” 

“Rose! Temptation! That congealed piece of virginity; 
that’s good!” There was a flash of the old Hoyland in 


THE LITTLE SOUL 307 

the sneer, the glance he threw at McCabe, though the next 
moment his eyes were back upon Diana, entreating for 
what? — for what? Through all his anger and contempt 
McCabe realized and wondered over this air of desperate 
entreaty, craving dependence. Did this frightful egoist 
realize at last all that he had missed in life? — the plight 
of the moth with the star. 

By the window the boy Anthony was staring from one to 
the other, like some one who is just awakened from a dream, 
half in one world, half in another. 

“Rose — thank God, she is so quiet, cold — it’s the only, 
possible chance for a girl in that position, out of her own 
world. But Maisie — what of Maisie? By God! Hoyland, 
I don’t believe that any sin committed could touch what 
you’ve omitted to do there. You knew that she was going 
to be beautiful. What don’t you know of women, of what 
attracts men? You actually counted upon it as a family 
asset — the chance of a legalized sale. Then, when it seemed 
that you might be called upon to sacrifice something, not so 
much money, but time, thought, personal freedom, you just 
let her go — the game not worth the candle, I suppose you 
thought !” 

“Wh — wh — ?” For a moment Hoyland turned to him, 
stuttering; then jerked himself aside. 

Distraught as he was, something of his old worldly wisdom 
still held. These middle-classes were so absurdly proper; 
if that little fool Maisie had made a mess of things — and 
there was only one slip over which one was so portentously 
solemn in regard to women — it might make everything more 
difficult between himself and Diana. 

“Where? Well, don’t you — you, of all people! — ^know 
the road for pretty, weak creatures like that, brought up 
to every sort of luxury?” insisted McCabe mercilessly; 
“with absolutely no equipment for life, fighting their own 
battles, earning their own living. Is it any wonder that 
Maisie has — ?” 

“Diana, Diana, listen !” He would not even look at Mc- 
Cabe. “My sisters chose to go their own way — what could 
I do? I don’t know what lies that fellow’s told you. But 
that younger one — I tell you she was always like that — 
always — fast — headstrong — a little animal. Why, I could 
tell you things about her when she was the merest child,” 
Hoyland ran on. McCabe was amazed at his volubility, so 


308 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


different from that he had known of him. *The other one?, 
Rose, was as stubborn as a mule — they broke my poor 
mother’s heart between them. I swear to you, Diana — swear 
it! — I knew nothing of their movements. They wouldn’t 
tell me — trust them for that! — they’d laid their plans — ^but if 
ever two girls were pre — ” 

The word, the sentence, snapped sharply with the effect of 
cutting a taut string upwards with a knife. His head gave 
a backward jerk. As he put up his hand to his chin, McCabe 
realized the purplish flush round the scrap of black sticking- 
plaster at one side of his mouth. 

“You neither knew nor cared, but you’ve got to know 
now — by God, you’ve got to know, if I have to brand it into 
you!” said McCabe grimly. The others were close to him. 
They were so much one that it would not have seemed 
strange if he had put his hand into Diana’s. Before Hoy- 
land’s appearance they had been two parties — “those Clay- 
tons” and himself ; but now Hoyland alone stood apart. For 
a moment his eye ran furtively from one to another; his 
head was bent; if he had actually slavered it would have 
seemed all cfl a part. 

“You left those two girls to face the world alone, as best 
they could — perfectly good girls until this happened — ^you 
know that ; you — ” 

“If Maisie’s got herself into trouble it’s nothing to do with. 
me, do you hear!” shrieked H©yland. “She was always 
like that, I tell you, a born wanton. Do you think I don’t 
know the type? I — I — ! Let her lover marry her, if he’s 
fool enough. He’ll pay for it, pay through the nose. 
‘Perfectly good until now !’ ” His voice rose higher and 
higher. “Don’t we all know what that means? Every 
girl’s ‘perfectly good’ until there’s sufficient temptation! 
Good heavens! isn’t that why there are so many perfectly 
good? Untempted, because they’re untempting; no other 
reason. Diana, if you knew the world as I do — Diana — ” 

“Perfectly good — and you know it, you foul-mouthed 
beast ! I think Miss Clayton knows it, too. Upon my soul, 
Hoyland — ^your condemnation would clear any one. Apart 
from them, did it ever occur to you to wonder what your 
pupil might be doing in Sheffield?” 

“Up to no good. I’ll be bound. I knew what he was from 
the first — any man of the world would have known it. I 
tried to keep it from his people here — I’ve done my best 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


309 


before Christ I’ve done my best ! You believe that — Diana, 
you must believe that !” He moved a step forward and put 
one hand upon her arm. There was something terrible in 
his every gesture: a dog, fawning, yet savage. “He-’s 
corrupt through and through. Every vice, every — every 
imaginable — ” He broke off, then caught himself together 
again. ‘‘But what in the name of all that’s holy has 
Anthony got to do with Doctor McCabe — with my sisters — 
with — with — ” 

Suddenly it came to him. For what reason, in what 
extremity, did women turn to McCabe ? During the last few 
days he had felt deadened, confused; but now the memory 
of that day when he had tracked young Clayton through the 
mean streets of Sheffield flashed upon him, clear-cut and 
complete. As though it had been thrown upon a screen, he 
saw that untidy living-room, where he had found his pupil, 
littered with the innumerable signs of a woman’s occupa- 
tion ; the curled snapshot stuck into the frame of the mirror, 
and everything else slid into place. 

“Diana, listen to me ! You must listen to me !” 

The girl had drawn away her arm, but he caught at her 
hand, cool and smooth to his burning touch. He was half 
wild with fear, a sense of some inexplicable horror. Unless 
Diana would help him, hold by him, he was lost. Everything 
else was cut away from under him. His will, helpless in the 
grip of those physical tremors, which shook him from head 
to foot, had let Anthony slip ; left him drained of all that the 
boy had once yielded to him ; it was like being bled. 

His old self, with all its impregnable self-confidence, was 
gone. There was nothing left; he was hung in space, an 
agonized body, no more. A man who had lived for self, 
bereft of self. 

“You never told me that you had sisters in Sheffield — so 
near. If you didn’t know where they were, what does that 
show — in itself ?” 

It was Diana who was speaking, drawn definitely apart 
from him. These good women! how damnably hard they 
were! He was a fool to turn to her, and yet she seemed 
the only one who could help, the one possible antidote to 
the agony which racked him. Wasn’t there some method 
of deadening pain by freezing? Whoever invented that 
must have known Diana Clayton. 

And yet, to others, how kind she could be! — ^her own 


310 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


family — McCabe there. The devil take the fellow, but there 
was already something between them; he had caught their 
glances. 

''Oh, now we know, your sister can come here; we will 
have a chance to do all that’s possible,” she went on. "But 
for you — ^before God, Mr. Hoyland, I believe that you are 
the one who is responsible. For them, if she is so young, 
if she loves Anthony, if Anthony loves her — ” 

"Di! Of course, isn’t that plain? She knows that — ‘ 
always, always!” broke in young Clayton. "No one could 
see her and not understand — she knows that herself. Why, 
that’s the only thing that’s clear-cut — our caring for each 
other. There was one evening we had tea together; I 
felt rotten ... a damp, cold evening, and I remember” 
— he hesitated, searqhing his memor)^ — "I remember — Oh, 
if only I could remember — if only — ” 

He was trembling from head to foot, but he held himself 
erect; the slouch was gone. His glance was bewildered, 
distressed and yet cleared, passing from one to the other. 
If ever devils were cast out, they might have left a man thus, 
clean, emptied: "It’s all like a dream, the sort of dream 
in which one is some one else, and yet oneself : doing awful, 
filthy things — trampling people underfoot, and not caring. 
But if ever I’ve harmed Maisie — Di, Mother, you must be- 
lieve me — it wasn’t me, not really me — I w^as at the back of 
myself. Sometimes I realized what I was doing, all of a 
sudden : then the Thing — ^before God, I don’t know what it 
was — ^took possession of me again. I couldn’t make myself 
care. I wanted to hurt ; to be up to all sorts of beastly, low 
tricks. I know it must be jolly hard to understand — I don’t 
understand myseji ; but look here, sir, — ” 

He raised his mother’s hand from his arm, and took a step 
towards McCabe, his troubled eyes full upon him. "I didn’t 
know — I myself — I didn’t. I give you my word I didn’t.” 

"That’s good! A sort of moral kleptomania; the old 
excuse — irresponsibility, the ignorance of innocence! You 
and that young sister of mine — a born harlot! — a pair of 
you, a pretty — a pretty — ” broke in Hoyland ; then stopped 
with a jerk which swung him on his heels, his spine curved, 
his head thrown back. 

For a moment it seemed as though he must fall, and Mc- 
Cabe put out one hand; but he pulled himself together 
again ; turned to Diana, catching at her sleeve. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


311 


*‘If you knew that fellow as well as I do — that McCabe 
— doctor he calls himself ! — the questionable cases he^s been 
mixed up in — prison, that’s the place for him ! If the police 
knew where he was, if I gave so much as a hint — ” Hoy- 
land snapped his fingers with an oddly wild gesture: then 
caught at Diana’s arm, dragging her round towards him. 
‘‘Look at me — by Christ, I’ll have you look at me!” — he 
almost shouted the words as he realized the way in which 
the girl’s eyes had turned towards McCabe. 

“I love you — no one can ever love you as I do — Don’t I 
know life? Haven’t I tried everything? — come to you at 
last? What milk-an’- water fool could ever teach you — 
show you life — appreciate you — waken you, as I can? — 
you beautiful, cold thing, you! I hate you — and yet I 
love you — worship you ! You’ve brought me down — I 
could crawl to you. I never cared before — it was always 
the others — always — those damned clinging, weeping women ! 
— ^but now . . . Diana, look at me, look at me! Don’t 
mind those others, they’re nothing to us, nothing. It’s you 
and I against the world. You have no faintest conception 
what life might be — stuck up here, among these hills — fro- 
zen, starved! — all the sunshine, the laughter, the beauty — 
Art, music, passion. You and I, Diana — you and I, with 
the world before us — only think what it means. There’s that 
young cub of a brother of yours, killing himself with dissi- 
pation — my precious sister — Let them go their own way. 
We, you and I, have the will to live — Let them go ; they and 
your mother — Mad — mad — of course, you know, mad as 
can be. But you — ^you — ” 

The short, broken sentences had rapped out of him like 
hail on an iron roof — quickening at every word, sharp, dis- 
tinct. For a moment he paused, his face horribly distorted ; 
then launched forward again on a slurred stream of abuse, 
foul invective. 

It was as though the sewer of the sin, filth, degeneration 
of the entire world, penned up through all ages, had accumu- 
lated in this single human being — this semblance of humanity 
— and now, breaking bounds, swept over them; bearing on 
its tide a revelation of things but half guessed at, a selfish- 
ness, a lust and cruelty beyond all words. 

The whole thing was so amazing that the flow was at its 
full before McCabe, gathering himself together, stepped 
forward, and was laying a hand upon Hoyland’s shoulder. 


812 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


when he was jerked backwards with a crash upon the floor. 

“And the devil rent him — ” 

McCabe, kneeling beside the distorted figure, raised his 
head and glanced up at the blind woman. She was standing 
with her son’s arm round her, one hand in her daughter’s — ■ 
“Those Claytons !” as Hoyland would have said. 

The old servant had entered the room, was looking down 
at the prostrate man, her lips pinched tight. A scared girl, 
with her cap at the back of her head, peered round the lintel 
of the door, and McCabe called to her — “Fetch a couple 
of men, if there are any about. We must get him up to bed.” 
He half-turned to Diana — “Is there any one with a horse, 
that I can send to — I suppose Buxton’s the nearest town? 
— there are things I must have.” 

“I’ll go myself — I can get off quicker than any one else.” 
She moved forward and stood for a moment so close to 
McCabe’s shoulder that he could smell the damp air upon her 
skirt, feel the strength and the quiet of her; then, turning 
aside, she pulled a coverlet from the sofa, and spread it over 
the twitching figure upon the floor, while McCabe took out 
his note-book and pencil. 

“I’m afraid it’s not much use; it’s evidently gone pretty 
far. He must have got some sort of cut or abrasion — Per- 
haps that — ” Hoyland’s reddened eyes were dragged wide, 
as though held open — ^the lower lid pulled down — ^but they 
never wavered as McCabe indicated the scrap of sticking- 
plaster — “Do you know what that was ? Is there any chance 
that some soil — ?” 

“Yes, we were driving — it must have been a piece of mud 
kicked up from the horse’s hoofs ; with a sharp splinter of 
stone in it. Do you think — Why, it happened before, the 
first day he was here — only clean earth and a bit of stone; 
it couldn’t — ” She broke off, slow-dawning comprehen- 
sion in her grave eyes as she took the paper from McCabe’s 
hand. 

“An anti-toxin to be injected along the spine — and sodium 
bromide — or hyoscine — there’s no knowing what they’ll have 
in a little country town. But — ” he gave a gesture of 
despair. “Oh, well ; the first thing’s to get him to bed, of 
course — absolute quiet. Ah, now — ” 

A couple of men in earth-stained corduroys appeared in 
the doorway. The old servant moved towards them, beckon- 
ing, her chin sideways in the air so that she should not see 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


313 


what lay upon the floor: the thought came to McCabe — 
“How unalterable those sort of people are in their hatred, 
their affections ?” 

They were all gathered round Hoyland — ^the men stooping 
over him — and yet they remained intangibly apart. It was 
as though, while their bodies advanced, their innermost 
selves, all that was most native to them, drew back, separate 
and aloof. 

“The end — What else is there for one who has sinned 
against his soul ? The people, our people, the very birds and 
beasts of the fields, drew back from him, always, from the 
very beginning — What could he do, where could he go?’' 
It was the blind woman who spoke; her voice was wrung 
with pity, and yet she was no nearer to Hoyland, — McCabe 
realized that, realized, with a sudden sense of horror, that 
no one had ever been near to him; even those unhappy 
women who had loved him — “His own kind was raw to his 
touch” — it was as though she had voiced his thought — 
“The wind, the sky, the very trees, held apart, waiting, — 
and now, at the end, thd earth from which he sprang — the 
resentful earth — has conquered.” 


CHAPTER VIII 

The snow came early that year — in the Peak district, at 
least — the white banner of a promised peace. Here and 
there it was broken by the sides of the sharp gray crags, black 
in contrast. For the rest, it lay smooth above the sleeping 
earth; in deep, rounded drifts down the roads, heaped up 
against the walls, almost immeasurably deep in the dales. 

It began upon the evening of McCabe’s arrival at Ox Lee; 
wild with storming winds, frantic in its fall ; as though the 
decaying earth could never be shrouded quickly enough: 
wrapped away decently beneath its smooth swatliings, hidden 
out of sight until the resurrection of the new year, spring- 
time and the sprouting blade. 

Daniel Haele lost two ewes that first night, saved others 
only at the risk of his own life. Deep in Millers Dale, an old 
woman lay ready for burial, and there was no getting her 
coffin up the steep wild ways to her resting-place at Tides- 
well. A day later and the milk carts, on their way to the 
station, were forced to cut across the fields, the narrow 


314 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


roads lying full and smooth with snow from wall to wall. 

It was with difficulty that Rose and Maisie Hoyland, 
coming in reply to McCabe’s telegram, could be got up from 
Peak Forest station. 

At the end of twenty-four hours, however, the wind 
dropped as though it had fallen suddenly asleep in the very 
midst of its passion. The snow still fell, steadily, thickly; 
but with an effect of slow, sweet peace. All its fear and 
flurry had passed with the spent wind ; it knew what it was 
about and did its work surely, with infinite gentleness. 

It was Diana who had met the two girls, hardly any one 
else could have negotiated the hills at such a time. 

Maisie entered the hall first ; her shoulders thickly yoked 
in snow. Her head was high, her eyes bright, her cheeks 
like rose-tinted carnations : gallapt and defiant, she gave 
McCabe the impression of a fine steel blade, fresh from its 
scabbard. 

Rose walked behind, burdened with wraps. Her face was 
white and blue, her nose pinched with cold, her eyes anxious 
and shamed, her shoulders bowed — '‘poking” as her mother 
would have said. 

Diana Clayton had told them something of how matters 
stood during the drive from the station, had gone alone on 
purpose. 

Heaven knows. Rose Hoyland had no reason to love her 
brother, to wish for his life to be prolonged; but her con- 
ventionality was so engrained that she really did feel as the 
world might imagine she ought to feel. 

As to Maisie she thought of nothing but Anthony, and the 
new life which lay between them : defiant and yet ardent. 

There had been a large fire lighted in the drawing-room, 
so piled with logs that it filled the wan place with warmth 
and color. The flood of rosy light dappling the walls, 
rising, falling, gave the impression of a beating heart, stirred 
to new life by a generous bumper of red wine. 

Without a word Anthony took Maisie’s arm, drew her into 
the room and shut the door. 

They were very young and they had no thought for 
Charles Hoyland; there was themselves and that other — a 
completely rounded world — to talk over, plan for. 

When they did at last re-appear all the doubt and distress 
had dropped from Anthony ; he was no longer a boy — would 
never be a boy again — ^but a grave man. 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


315 


Maisie’s face was soft and womanly. As Anthony pre- 
sented her to his mother — sitting on the sofa by the hall fire 
— she dropped down at her feet, laid her cheek against her 
knees ; not in humility — nothing — nothing — could ever make 
Maisie humble — but with a sudden sense of deep under- 
standing, of affection, for the woman who had borne the man 
she loved, the father of her child. 

As Mrs. Clayton’s hand rested upon the soft dark hair, 
her face became very peaceful. She would never be affected 
by Maisie’s poutings, by all the silly, hard things she said and 
did : the sort of person she so often appeared to be. At that 
first touch — that wonderful touch, which realized so much 
more than the stupid blank eyes of so many people — she had 
reached to the best that was in the girl, the infinite possi- 
bilities awakening within her. 

Charles Hoyland died at three o’clock that afternoon, and 
three days later he was buried in ground so iron hard that 
it seemed as though it must have clenched its teeth ; holding 
itself back in fierce resentment against the incursion of what 
remained of the man w'ho had scorned it ; as though even its 
victory — the more than ordinary triumph of earth — had not 
satisfied the bitterness of despised motherhood. 

To the very end he was dependent upon those he had so 
looked down upon. It was Jabe and Reuben Haele who — 
reeking of the soil, the breath of animals — had carried him 
from the drawing-room to his bed that day, when his illness 
had got beyond control of even his will ; and it was relays of 
just such men — clods, as he would have called them — ^who 
bore him to his last resting-place. For the deep winding 
road to the little churchyard, lying in the hollow between 
Setons’ and Ox Lee, was impassable for any sort of vehicle, 
however urgent its mission ; though by this time a powerful 
steam plow had cleared the middle of the main road leading 
to Peak Forest station. 

Rose Hoyland was going back to Sheffield, to the sureness 
and peace of well ordered toil, while McCabe was returning 
to London. One of the farm lads, all “a’gorm” with in- 
terest, brought the trap with their luggage to the nearest 
point of the road above the churchyard; but it was Diana 
herself who drove them. 

For the first time for days the sun was shining. Catching 
a glimpse of Ox Lee as they passed, they saw that some one, 
likely enough Nanny, was pulling up the blinds one after 


316 


THE LITTLE SOUL 


another, so that the house looked like a person awakening 
from a long dark night, bright-eyed, blinking in the sunshine. 

As far as the eye could reach — save for the winding strip 
of clear road, the clumps of trees, the black sides of steep 
masses of rock — the world was of an unbroken, shining 
whiteness : even the deeper dales showed nothing more than 
a blue shade ; in some places dark as periwinkles, in others 
paler than the faintest hare-bell. 

The Sheffield train left first. Having waved a last good- 
by to Rose, Diana and McCabe paced up and down the 
narrow platform. 

There was a young woman with her mother, and a bright 
yellow tin box, who looked as though she might be on her 
way to her first place ; and a couple of quarry-men, in dark 
corduroys and red neck-cloths, waiting for the London train, 
but that was all. 

They took their tickets, but still McCabe and his compan- 
ion walked up and down, without speaking; though as they 
turned, his arm touched Diana’s shoulder. 

At last he looked at his watch ; “Only two minutes till the 
train’s due — I suppose I’d better get my ticket.” 

He moved towards the booking office. The clerk was 
momentarily engaged and he stood tapping gently upon the 
counter, not in the least impatient, quietly and dreamingly 
happy ; unable to realize that he was really leaving this place, 
all it had so quickly grown to mean to him. 

Still the clerk did not come. He heard the train rush into 
the station, the clatter of empty milk cans, and glanced 
across the little barricade at Diana, who was standing, quietly 
waiting, with that same leisurely air, as though there was a 
whole life-time before them. 

“Oh, look here, I don’t want to go!” said McCabe, sud- 
denly, with an air of inexpressible youth, boyishness, despite 
his gray hair, lined face. His bright eyes met Diana’s, 
equally bright and steady, glowing like a blue flame. 

“Then why go?” she asked, and smiled at him, her face 
flooded with a wave of color. 


THE END 


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